The drizzle started at four, right on schedule. I was at a kopitiam in TTDI, nursing a teh tarik that had gone lukewarm, watching the rain turn the street outside into a sheet of grey. Two weeks ago I would have panicked about the humidity ruining my phone. Today I just let the fan spin overhead and ordered another teh tarik. This is the thing about KL in August: the rain comes, it does its business, and it leaves. The trick is to plan around it, not against it.
I had spent the morning on my last few errands. The bank run first — a quick stop at Maybank's main branch to sort out a recurring payment for the TTDI flat I had been renting. The rent, for context, runs me about eighteen hundred ringgit a month for a modest one-bedroom, which works out to roughly three hundred and ninety dollars. That is the going rate for a decent place in the city, though you can find cheaper further out. The teller recognised me by now. Four visits in one week will do that. She waved me over without checking my passport this time, and I felt a small, absurd sense of achievement.
From there I took the MRT one stop to Sentral to top up my Touch 'n Go card. The machine ate my ten-ringgit note twice before accepting it, and I stood there pressing the buttons with the patience of someone who has learned that the card is non-negotiable in this city. You need it for the trains, the buses, even some of the older monorail lines. The My50 pass, which gives you unlimited rides on RapidKL services for fifty ringgit a month, about eleven dollars, is the smarter buy if you are staying longer than a week. I bought one on my second day here and it has already paid for itself twice over.
By lunch the clouds had cleared enough to walk. I knew the rain was coming later, so I headed to Chow Kit market for something I had been putting off. Durian. The stalls near the market entrance had been tempting me all week, and the prices had dropped since the early-season peak. I found a vendor with a small mountain of the spiky fruit and asked for a small one. She picked one up, weighed it, and told me thirty-two ringgit for one point three kilos — around four dollars. I paid, and she cracked it open there on the spot, the smell hitting me like a wall. It is intense. Some people love it, some people run. I am still deciding, but I ate it standing by her stall, the flesh custardy and faintly sweet, and I did not regret it.
The market itself was quieter than on my first visit. The morning crowd had gone, and the afternoon shoppers were mostly women in headscarves picking up vegetables for dinner. I walked the aisles slowly, past the dried fish stalls and the mounds of red chilli, and bought a small bag of rambutan for three ringgit because they looked too good to pass up. A woman at the fruit stall laughed when I tried to peel one with my teeth and handed me a knife. I thanked her in the only Malay I know properly — terima kasih — and she nodded, already turning to the next customer.
I had read about KL Fashion Week's public screenings at the Esplanade near KLCC Park — the fourteenth edition, apparently themed 'Destination: Home Ground' — and I wanted to see the crowds. It was early for the evening show, but the outdoor LED screen was already playing a loop of local designers' work, and a handful of people had claimed spots on the grass. I sat on a low wall for a while, watching the skyline, the Petronas Towers catching the late-afternoon light. From there I checked the time and decided I had enough margin to walk to the mosque quarter before the rain started.
The drizzle began as I reached the edge of the old colonial district. I ducked into the portico of the Sultan Abdul Samad Building, the rain drumming on the copper roofs a few metres above me. Dataran Merdeka was empty, the flagpole dripping, and I remembered reading about the mess after the World Cup final screenings — the rubbish that had been left behind, the minister's public appeal. The square looked spotless now. I stood there for a few minutes, feeling the cool air against my skin, before the rain eased to a fine mist and I continued on.
I found a quiet spot at an outdoor cafe near the river and ordered a kopi. The barista, a young Malay guy with a ponytail, asked where I was heading. When I said the Jungle Railway, he grinned. "You'll love it," he said. "My grandfather used to ride it to his kampung in Kelantan. Sleeper train, slow, but the views are worth it." He told me to bring layers for the night section, and to grab a seat on the left side going north for the river views. I made a note on my phone. This is the kind of advice you cannot find in a guidebook.
The rain had stopped by the time I walked back towards Chow Kit for dinner. I had eaten at Bunglow37 earlier in the week and loved it, but tonight I wanted something simpler. I found a hawker stall on a side street near Jalan Alor that I had passed a dozen times without stopping. The aunty running it served mee goreng with a fried egg on top for eight ringgit, under two dollars, and the prawns were plump and sweet. I ate at a plastic table while the tukang kayu next door packed up his tools, and the smell of grilling satay drifted over from the next stall.
After dinner I walked up to the rooftop of my building in TTDI. The city lights were starting to come on, and the air had that post-rain freshness you only get here in August. I stood by the parapet for a long time, looking south-east towards the Petronas Towers and the needle of Merdeka 118 beyond them, both still lit against the darkening sky. In a few hours I would board the night bus north to Tumpat, then the Jungle Railway into the interior. I had spent a week in KL sorting out visas, bank accounts, SIM cards and train tickets, and I had barely scratched the surface of the city.
That is the trick of this life: you land somewhere, you do the paperwork, you eat the food, and then you leave before you really know the place. I have been in KL for seven days, and I have seen maybe a tenth of what it holds. The Batu Caves are still on the list, and the Thean Hou Temple, and the Bird Park. I will come back in a later season and do it properly. For now, the train is the story, and the east coast dry-season belt is waiting.
The alarm is set for four in the morning. The bus leaves at six, and I will be on it, backpack on my lap, watching the outskirts of KL slide past in the grey dawn. Selamat datang, I said to myself on the first day, and the city said welcome back, stay a while. But the rails are calling, and I have learned to trust the routes that run along the old lines. Aisyah out.
Before I sign off, a few practical notes for anyone planning a similar stretch. The visa process is straightforward for most passports — 30 days free for many nationalities, 90 for others — but you must complete the Malaysia Digital Arrival Card within three days of landing. Do not skip it. For the bank account, bring your passport, your visa or pass, and proof of address; Maybank and CIMB are the usual choices. A prepaid SIM from CelcomDigi or Maxis is sold right at the arrival hall in KLIA, registration tied to your passport. And the My50 transit pass is the single best deal in the city. That is it. The rest is just showing up and letting the rain do what it does.
One last thing. On the rooftop, I heard a gecko call from the drainpipe — that sharp, two-note chirp that sounds like it is saying its own name. I have heard it every night this week. It is the sound of a place settling into you. I am glad I noticed it tonight, because tomorrow there will be train wheels and the slow rhythm of the interior, and I want to remember this small green city in all its wet, flag-draped, temporary glory.
So that is the end of the KL chapter. The next episode will come from the Jungle Railway, somewhere between the lowland palms and the granite hills, hopefully with a working signal. Until then, terima kasih for listening, and selamat jalan.
Aisyah Rahman, Kuala Lumpur, signing off. The train leaves in six hours, and for once, I am packed.