Een man op een bankje voor de tempel bij Kampung Bahru wuift me naar binnen.
Ok to Enter!
Ik loop achter hem aan naar binnen. Een lift in. Een etage omhoog. In een grote kleedzaal doen we onze schoenen uit. Sokken ook. En wassen we onze voeten bij een lage wasbak. Dan leidt hij me de zaal in. Het is vrij donker. Een man zit voorovergebogen te bidden. Het is stil. Het is kaal. Aan de lange kant van de zaal staat een altaar. Ik probeer een foto te maken. Te weinig licht.
De nationale moskee is ingesteld op toeristen.
Bij de ingang schoenen in het rek. Je krijgt een paarse djellaba die je moet dichtplakken met ingenaaid, verweerd klittenband. Uiteraard zijn er ook eigenwijze mannetjes die denken dat dat niet nodig is. Het aantal toeristen in de moskee wordt gereguleerd door middel van het aantal uit te geven djellaba’s. Ik was vroeg en kon direct naar binnen. Toen ik terug kwam zat er een rij toeristen op bankjes te wachten op vrijgekomen djellaba’s.
De gebedsruimte mag je alleen in als je moslim bent.
Vanuit mijn hotelkamer kijk ik uit over Putrajaya. De ingang van de IOI city mall. Ik dacht dat dit een grote mall was, tot ik de andere malls in Kuala Lumpur zag. Fonteinen en overdekt relax-ruimtes. Bouwwerkzaamheden even verderop – een nieuw stuk land wordt gereed gemaakt voor bebouwing. In de verte twee grote gebouwen die onnatuurlijk lijken op te rijzen uit de grond. Deze gebouwen staan nog leeg. In de omgeving worden enorme nieuwe appartementsgebouwen neergezet. Als de bomen in de stad door het asfalt breken, zo barsten hier de flats de grond uit.
Het lijkt soms alsof de bomen hier in Kuala Lumpur door het asfalt heen zijn geknald. En struiken vreten zich een weg omhoog langs de muren. Als je er één keer op begint te letten zie je opeens hoe de natuur zich hier vastgrijpt aan de menselijke inrichting van de stad.
Net zo vaak zie je trouwens dat de mens bomen en struiken heeft laten staan, onduidelijk of achteloosheid of ontzag voor de natuur het motief daarbij is. In Nederland zouden we deze obstakels zonder veel poeha omver halen.
Op een of andere manier ontstaat een straatbeeld waaruit ontzag voor de natuur blijkt.
Als je vroeg genoeg in de straten van Kuala Lumpur bent, kan je leuke dingen zien. Pudu market is daar één van maar ook de aanleveraars aan restaurants en winkels kunnen interessant zijn. De slagers op straat kennen we met onze westerse hygiëne eisen niet meer. In Kuala Lumpur kom je ze deze ‘s ochtend vroeg het en der tegen. Fotograferen is geen probleem. Ze willen wel poseren ook.
I eat at Old China Cafe, on the recommendation of my Malaysian colleague. The booklet was also positive about it. It is indeed a cozy little brown restaurant with old pictures of Malaysia on the wall, just around the corner from the hectic Petaling Street. It is smaller than it appeared to me in the pictures. I ask for a table for one. The man points out a table. But he has yet to clean it if I will be patient. Indeed, it looks like a proverbial bomb has exploded at that table. A small toddler (the high chair is still there) has really managed to make an unimaginable mess. The high chair is buried under the mess.
I walk on. In the streets behind the Pudu market, birds and fish are sold. Not for consumption, but as pets, or for decoration perhaps. Long tables along the streets with bags of fish and bird cages.
The Pudu ICC is a place where Malaysians, mostly Chinese, eat breakfast. In a large hall under an apartment building is a huge space. In the middle of the hall are tables to eat and drink at, and along the sides many stores selling various specialty foods. Here too, as the only Westerner, I am a bit conspicuous. I walk around and try to find out how things work here. Not a word of English here. Chinese, Malay here and there.
I order a filter coffee and some kind of fried sweet potato. The coffee is prepared in great haste and too weak. The sweet potato with crispy crust is tasty.
I stroll through the streets in the direction of Bukit Bintang. This is apparently where the print shops are located—one print shop after another. The printing is on the sidewalk. Besides the machines, there is hardly any space in the buildings themselves.
Behind the former Prison Gate, which is recommended in my booklet, is a huge construction site.
I walk on, past the stadium. A very popular boy band from Korea is playing here tonight. Extraordinary that a Korean band can be so popular here. We in the West sometimes hardly know about what goes on in Asia. Like those Bollywood movies that can attract more visitors worldwide in one weekend than their American counterparts. That’s what you have with 1 billion Indians. Then, the Chinese have yet to come. The band plays tonight, but at the entrance to the stadium now, around noon, hordes of excited girls are already walking.
Next to the stadium is another huge construction site.
Woke up early. Quickly cobbled together breakfast in the room. Later in town, we’ll have something to eat, first to Pudu Wet Market.
It seems that the Grab driver only manages to find the place after crossing some backstreets. Pudu Market is a so-called wet market. That means it sells fresh produce—fresh fruits and vegetables—but also fresh animals. That means they are brought in alive whenever possible and turned into products on the spot.
I walk through the covered section first. It is a bit stuffy, and there is little light. I attach the flash to my camera. The people are terribly nice. This could certainly be because I am really the only Westerner in that whole market. I walk around with a camera on my belly. Hardly anyone refuses when I ask if I can take a picture. In fact, they often pose with thumbs up and V signs.
There is mostly fish and shellfish, both live and dead. The fish that are not yet dead are killed and cleaned upon request. I see a barrel of large frogs.
At a stand in the corner, live chickens are processed into the bare bodies we know from our store. The chicken is lifted from a crate, and its throat is cut. The dead chicken is thrown into a barrel and a little later, at the follow-up stage, into a container of hot water. This stainless steel barrel is somewhat reminiscent of a centrifuge. It also spins around, but more slowly. So the chicken is put through the hot water for about a minute and then thrown into the plucking machine.
A creepy process to the Westerner, for whom a slaughtered chicken is as sterile a thing as whole wheat bread.
It’s raining again. The second day in a row with rain. Not a lot, but almost continuously. At the guard’s booth, an Indian stranger offers to walk the last bit to the entrance of the building with him under the umbrella.
Food is a thing here. Gary takes me to a Japanese restaurant at noon. By the way, eating out in the afternoon and evening is more common here than cooking for yourself. By the way 2, we like to leave early because of the traffic on the road that will cause the walk to Friday afternoon prayers in the mosques nearby. Indeed, later, the cars are two rows thick along the road.
We ate a light meal in the Japanese restaurant, and I paid for the two of us. In retaliation, Gary took me to a nearby Malaysian restaurant in the evening to taste the excellent satay.
In the mall around the corner, there is a noodle restaurant where noodles are made the traditional way.
Grab is great. The Über of Asia. Maybe even better.
I ride back and forth to work daily for about 10 MYR per ride (just over 2 euros?). The cars and drivers are clean and tidy. All they ask of you is to give them a 5-star rating in the app. The cars are mostly Proton, a local Malaysian brand. “Never buy one,” the owners let me know.
I understand it is a sport here to maximize your motorcycle by stripping it completely of all unnecessary accessories, including the brakes. These stripped motorcycles are then raced on the highways. On the news, I heard that today, the 10th youngster in a short time has killed himself in this sport. “They never learn,” says my colleague.
At lunch, I drink Asam Boi, a local drink made from lemonade and pickled plums. The combination of the lemonade’s sweetness and the plums’ sourness is perfect.
