The alarm goes off at seven, but I am already awake. The light through the hotel curtain has that heavy, golden quality that tells you the sun is up and the city is already baking. This is my last full day in Kuala Lumpur before I board the Jungle Railway tomorrow morning, and I want to spend it properly. Not rushing. Not ticking boxes. Just being here.
I start with a slow breakfast at a kopitiam near the hotel in TTDI. Old-school coffee shop, white tiles, a ceiling fan that barely moves the air. I order roti bakar with kaya and a cup of teh tarik that the uncle behind the counter pulls high, the milk frothing as it hits the glass. It costs about RM 4, a little under a dollar. The bread is crisp, the kaya is sweet and pandan-scented, and for twenty minutes I just sit there watching the morning traffic build. This is the KL I came for, the one that runs on coffee and routine.
After breakfast, I check the sky. The forecast said light drizzle, about one millimetre over four hours, but it is dry right now. The August heat is already pressing down, and the air feels like a wet towel. I have learned that the rain here is short and impatient, so I am going to make the most of this dry window. I head for the MRT, tapping my Touch 'n Go card on the reader. The fare into the city centre is about RM 2.50, and the train is cool, which makes stepping back out into the heat feel like walking into a wall of steam.
I get off at the old quarter, near the river. The city is deep into National Month now, bulan kemerdekaan, and everywhere I look there are Jalur Gemilang flags, red and white and blue, strung across shopfronts and hanging from lamp posts. In a few weeks it will be the thirty-first of August, and the whole country will erupt. For now, the flags are just starting to multiply, like the city is slowly dressing for a party. I walk towards Dataran Merdeka, the square where independence was declared in 1957. It is a wide, open space, and the Sultan Abdul Samad Building on its eastern edge still looks imposing, copper domes and clock tower glowing in the hard morning light.
There is fresh sand on the ground here. I remember reading about the World Cup final screening, tens of thousands of people crammed onto this exact spot to watch on the big screen. The Federal Territories Minister had to appeal for public cleanliness after the event because the square was left carpeted in rubbish. People are still talking about it. It is a reminder that KL is a city of celebrations that can spill over, and of authorities trying to keep up.
I cross the river and walk through the colonial district, past the old railway station and the National Mosque. The Islamic Arts Museum is on my right, and I pause, thinking about the calligraphy and ceramics I saw inside a few days ago. I do not go in again. Instead, I keep walking, heading towards Merdeka 118. The building is absurdly tall, the second-tallest in the world, and it seems to lean over the old shophouses below it like a parent watching a toddler. I crane my neck, and it still does not fit in my frame. The contrast between the nineteenth-century colonial facades and this steel needle is the whole story of KL in one view.
The heat is starting to get to me, so I duck into the shade of a side street and pull out my phone. I have been meaning to check the LaLaport Bon Odori festival, which apparently runs this weekend at BBCC. I am told the crowds wear yukata, there is a Japanese food bazaar, bluefin tuna-cutting, cosplay. It is the first of two weekends, and it sounds like a joyful collision of Malaysian and Japanese summer traditions. I will not be here for it, so I make a note to find a similar festival on the east coast. The phone also shows me a reminder about the KL Fashion Week, which has taken over the Esplanade at KLCC Park with a big outdoor screen. I catch a glimpse of it from here, the LED panel glowing over the park, but I do not detour. Some things are saved for the return.
For lunch, I walk to a place I have wanted to try: White & Black Kampong, a Malay restaurant in the city centre. It is busy when I arrive, a good sign. I order nasi lemak and a plate of fried chicken, the rice wrapped in banana leaf, the sambal with a serious kick. The meal costs about RM 12, roughly two and a half dollars. Sitting there, I think about the nasi lemak I had on the first day, at Chow Kit market. That one was simpler, wrapped in plastic, eaten standing up. This one is a proper plate, served with peanuts and anchovies and a wedge of cucumber. Both are perfect in their own way. That is the thing about this dish, it can be a street snack or a sit-down meal, and it always tastes like home.
After lunch, the sky darkens. The drizzle starts, light at first, then a steady patter on the shop awnings. I take shelter under the five-foot walkway, the covered walkway that runs along every street in old KL, and watch the rain wash the dust out of the air. It smells like wet concrete and tropical leaves. The rain lasts about twenty minutes, then stops as quickly as it began. The sun comes back, and the steam rises off the road. I pull out my rain jacket, the one I bought a few days ago. It will not be leaving my backpack anytime soon.
I have one more errand before I go. I need to check my packing for the Jungle Railway leg. The train runs through the interior, and I have heard the carriages can get cool at night, especially in the hills. I stop by a small shop near Pasar Seni to buy a lightweight travel blanket, something that rolls up small. It costs RM 25, about five dollars. I also pick up a packet of earplugs for the train cabin. I am trying to think ahead about the small discomforts.
In the late afternoon, I take the LRT up to the Kampung Baru area. This is one of the last Malay kampung holdouts in the city centre, a patch of low wooden houses surrounded by skyscrapers. I walk along the narrow lanes, past a mosque with a wide courtyard, and wave at an old man sitting on his porch. He waves back. I find a stall selling durian. The vendor, a young man with a machete, splits one open for me. It is about RM 32 for a small fruit, roughly seven dollars. The smell is pungent, sweet and rotting all at once. I eat it with my hands, the custard flesh sticking to my fingers. I cannot say I love it yet, but I respect it. It is a fruit that demands an opinion.
As the evening comes, I make my way to the rooftop garden at LaLaport BBCC. I have heard the view is good, and I want to see the city lights one last time. The rooftop is busy with couples and families, children running between flower beds. I find a spot at the railing and watch the skyline. The Petronas Towers, the KL Tower, and Merdeka 118 all switch on at once, a constellation of lights. Below me, the city hums. I can see the train lines crisscrossing, the headlights of cars crawling along the expressways. In the distance, the rain clouds are clearing, leaving a strip of purple sky.
I think about my first night here, six days ago, landing at KLIA and taking the express train into the city, jet-lagged and slightly overwhelmed. The city felt huge and chaotic then. Now, I can read it a little better. I know that the MRT goes to Bangsar, that the best teh tarik is the one pulled high, that the rain comes and goes and you just have to wait it out. I know that a meal can cost RM 8 or RM 80, and both can be excellent.
For dinner, I decide on one last splurge. I take a Grab up to a place called Bunglow37, a restaurant tucked into a leafy corner of the city. It is a calm, atmospheric space with warm lighting and a menu full of modern Malaysian flavours. I order a slow-cooked beef rendang and a vegetable dish I do not quite understand but trust. The meal costs about RM 60, around thirteen dollars. It is more than I usually spend, but I am marking the close of this first chapter.
On the way back to the hotel, the Grab driver asks where I am headed. I tell him I am off to the east coast tomorrow, on the Jungle Railway. He nods and says it is a beautiful ride, the old train through the heart of the country. He offers a piece of advice. Bring water, he says. The train is slow, and it is hot. I thank him. We sit in comfortable silence for the rest of the drive, the city lights flickering past the window.
And now I am back in my hotel room, the laundry drying on the rack, the backpack half-packed on the spare bed. The blanket and earplugs are on top. Tomorrow, the train leaves at dawn. I will be on it. But for tonight, I am still in Kuala Lumpur, and I am going to sleep with the window open, listening to the distant hum of the traffic and the geckos on the wall. The last sound of this city before I trade it for the rhythm of the rails. This is Aisyah, signing off from my last night in KL. Selamat datang, and I will see you on the train.