Reflections on the Road: How my Malaysian Mattress became a Throne

PART I – THE SETTING  

The hostel, located in the heart of Malaysia’s capital, Kuala Lumpur, was a dump.  And though I would never call a person a dump, I might be compelled to wonder if, to spite any and all travelers who enter its doors, the management of a particular hostel would hire only grouchy and despondent middle-aged individuals to man the front desk.   Rather than replying hello when you say hello, they would just look unhappily in your direction, as if you were the cause of their misery.  And though you might try a dozen times in four days to spur an exchange of greetings, they wouldn't budge.

The personality of the front desk staff matched the look of my room: a super-tight dorm with two bunk beds pressed close together – the kind of tiny space that made you wonder anew how they put carved ships in glass bottles.  In addition, the room stank to high heaven, most likely on account of its occupants.  My roommates were from Europe and I from the United States, but in a profoundly human way – and despite the differences of our respective governments on international affairs of late – we shared the common bond of foot odor.  I like to think the problem was not my feet but my Tevas.

The Petronas Towers, Kuala Lumpur

PART II – THE EVENT     

Very late one night, having crawled through the Dutch man's socks, underwear, and film canisters to get to the ladder leading to my bed, I sought sleep.  It was 4:00 a.m. and I had just walked from the socially happening district of Bangsar back to the center of town.  It was only a few miles, but during each of these miles – and somewhat against my will (which was too tired to resist) – I pined away for the life of a non-budget traveler, for such a traveler would have splurged on a taxi.

Anyway, I was now in bed.  The room was stuffy, the fan cantankerous and inadequate, and the smell of eight feet – even though only two were now present – potent.  And I couldn't sleep.  Five o'clock passed, then six, and finally the movement of time began to irritate me to no end.  My roommates were still out on the town, and I was certain they would stumble in as soon as I fell asleep.  More to the point, I was certain they would stumble in drunk and, even more to the point, turn the fluorescent light on.  In dorms I do not fear ghosts or thieves or strangers so much as the power of fluorescent bulbs in the wee hours of the morning.  The light switch in the hands of a drunk man is not tame, just as bright light on the eyelids of a sleepless traveler is not soothing. 

About 7:00 a.m. – just as I began finally to feel consciousness slipping away – my Dutch friend stumbled in.  I heard the click of a switch and clutched my pillow as those initial fluorescent flickers sounded and then burst into full-blown artificial light.  My eyelids were too tangled and heavy now to give the Dutchman the look of the devil, but I tried.  In the fog I saw him smile at me, almost like a small boy who is lost and confused.  Moments later he was asleep, wearing nothing but a sort of skimpy underwear that many Americans wouldn’t wear (it looked very much like thong panties), and having left the door wide open and the light on.  Thinking there might be something to the strained U.S.-European relations, I descended into his strewn belongings.  I turned off the light and shut the door.

Two hours later my day began.  In a desperate attempt to gain control of my life, I fled into the city in search of coffee.  I spent most of the day with coffee and books, reading about northern Thailand, Buddhism, and the region’s sex industry.  Then, twelve hours after having left the room, I returned. 

Opening the door, I was startled to find the Dutchman there, since I had assumed he and the others would already have headed out for another late night.  But I was also surprised to see the Dutchman in a way I hadn’t hours earlier in my sleepless fog.  His hair was still shorn close to the skull and his features still boyish, but a lump dominated the area above his right eyebrow and he had two black eyes.  BIG ones. 

"What happened?" I asked. 

He explained how, the night before, two Frenchmen driving a nice car and carting around two local girls befriended him at a disco.  He ordered a beer, one of the Frenchmen ordered a whiskey, and moments after receiving the drinks the Frenchman suggested the Dutchman take a sip of the whiskey.  It must have been drugged.  The French dumped the unconscious Dutchman on a Malaysian street and took off with his brand new digital camera. 

My roommate had had a rough night.  So had I, but it was partly of my own doing.  Kings judge subjects from thrones; sleepy individuals sometimes judge roommates while tossing and turning in bed.  It is dangerous to judge, and the practice is particularly prone to error when one is tired and reclined.  I felt badly for condemning the Dutchman in my mind the night before.  I knew my assumptions but I didn’t know the facts.  And so I judged wrong.  He was not a jerk after all; he was only a poor guy who had gotten beat up and robbed in a city far from his home. 

All this is to say:  If I had been in his shoes, I might have forgotten to turn off the lights, too.

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		Joel Carillet, Gather Travel Correspondent
	Joel's column, "Reflections on the Road," is published every other Thursday to Gather Essentials: Travel. His articles, based on extensive travels in Asia and the Middle East, seek to shed light on humanity, both our own and that of others.   They aim not merely to entertain and inform but also to develop a sense of connection between the reader and the world. Joel's writing and photography have appeared in several magazines and newspapers, including the Kansas City Star and Christian Science Monitor.  Currently he is seeking an agent for a book manuscript entitled Sixty-One Weeks: A Journey across Asia. When not on the road, he happily calls Tennessee home. Keep up with Joel's article series by joining his network, or subscribing to his content.