Margot, Kim and I order a combination of traditional fry
bread, tosei (a plain Indian crepe) for Margot, roti telur bawang (flat bread
filled with egg and onion) for me and roti pisang (filled with sugared banana)
for Kim, from Restoran Nasi Kandar Rafiq, the mamak across from our apartment
complex in Taman Cosas. A man skirts around the hard-backed yellow chairs crammed
under every available surface in the open-air cafe, and arrives at our table in
one well-timed, head-waggling flourish. He drops our plates, one by one, onto
the table, and nods politely, eyes averted, as we thank him, before sidling
back towards the busy grill. We wait, cutlery poised, as a second, much younger
Bangladeshi man with a burgeoning pot belly, and a shy smile that lights up his
boyishly good-looking features, comes teetering over with small bowls of chunky
Indian dahl.
On weekend mornings, I sometimes venture over to the mamak
with my book, currently the humanitarian epic, “Three Cups of Tea”, and sit in
the far back corner reading, and nursing three cups of my own Teh 'C', hot tea
with evaporated milk, and sugar on the side. Rafiq, the owner of the mamak,
always stops by my table to ask about Yoda, with a warm smile that reaches his
kind, brown eyes. “Where is your baby?” he inquires, with his soft, accented,
English. Sometimes Kim, who steals wi-fi from the laundromat up the road spots
me on her way by, and swoops in in her long black dress to sit across from me,
ordering 'iced kopi” or iced coffee with condensed milk. After each order, we
take turns remembering to say, “kurang manis”, which translates to “less
sweet”, since every drink in KL seems to be garnished with a pound of sugar.
On weekdays, we catch the T304 into work, which leaves every
half hour from the bus stop directly in front of the Astaria. More often than
not, I catch the bus at 7:30 am, moving about the apartment stealthily so as
not to wake Kim and Margot, so that I can go to the gym for an hour before
work. Sometimes, I sleep in, and Margot, groggy with sleep, her hair frizzy and
wild, croaks, “are you awake” through the crack in my door. When I answer, I
hear her floral patterned pink and turquoise slippers retreat across the
linoleum, and I roll onto my side to greet Yoda, who coils himself around the
door jamb and approaches my bedside, ready to be scooped up for an early
morning cuddle.
Sometimes, when I am in the apartment alone, it rains. And
the rain is so heavy and sweet, that I stand out on the balcony with Yoda
cradled in my arms and we watch the big watery drops splash into puddles that
span the length of the courtyard. And in this silent reverie, a thousand
memories wash to the surface. An image of the swollen river near our house,
working all of the garbage that collects along its rocky outcrops downstream,
so that it looks almost clean when we cross over the steel bridge above its
raging surface on our way home from the “pasar malam” or night market, where we
purchase thick wedges of sponge cake and drink fresh coconut water, straight
from the husk. Of four salty heads bobbing in the ocean during a particularly
violent storm in Kuantan, rain whipping salt water into our throbbing eyes. Of
my first days in the city, giving myself over to the streaming skies, pummeled
with the feeling of letting it all go.
And these routine moments in my life here, which seem too
banal to write about, are the things that I will ache for when I go back to
Canada. For the way that Margot runs screaming from the rats that come
scurrying out of the rancid pile of garbage near our stairwell. For Kim and
Margot doing the tango as we return home from the Green Man, their oblong
shadows dancing along darkened street sides. For the shirtless Chinese man, who
waves to us each morning from his balcony, as he lights incense and places
ritual pineapples on his well-tended altar. For the dodgy looking hamburger
cart, that wheels itself into place like clockwork each night across from the 7
Eleven outside of our apartment. For the Arab shop where we take our lunch each
day. For guitar lessons with entirely too much eye contact. For the taste of a
Tiger beer.
When I first arrived in Kuala Lumpur, I was disoriented by
the stark contrast between my life in Canada and the way that people live here.
But now, this place just feels like home. And as I prepare Yoda for his long
journey back to Canada, contemplate saying goodbye to Kim, Margot and Danae, and begin to wrap up the loose ends of my life here in
Malaysia, I am deeply saddened that this chapter is almost over for me. I have
found so much of myself here in this place, through the people I have met, and
the many experiences I have had. But, as with every story, where there is a
beginning, there must be an end. And so, it is with a heavy but hopeful heart
that I prepare to leave this city, and embark on my next journey. Because, in
the end, life will evolve, and there will always be new places, and spaces, and
moments in time to move into. But this place, and this experience, has shaped
me in ways I cannot even begin to describe. And that is something that I will
carry with me for the rest of my life.
Margot, Kim and Danae - Girls night out at La Bodega
