Money Matters (or, Malaysia end game)
It's here. It's got to be here. It's here, it's here, it's here. It's GOT to be here. Oh God, oh God, oh God. It's not here. But it's GOT to be here!
I am crouched on the floor of the incredibly convenient KL Sentral airline check-in, my suitcase and carry on both open and all my stuff spread out on the tiles around me. None of the steady-but-light stream of passengers going through the tape-queues beside me pay me any attention, too intent on their own impending travel plans. The three large men behind the counter are wearing identical curious smirks whenever they look in my direction. I am not the first person they have seen do this. I pick up each item in turn, examine it, set it aside. I unzip,zip,unzip,zip each pocket, compulsively fingering through the interiors. I pat down each bag, inside and out. Once. Twice. A third time. Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. It's not here. Oh God.
Not wanting to worry my way through rush hour traffic, which I'd been warned can be deadly, I set out for KL Sentral by taxi about 3 and a half hours before my flight. I already had a ticket from Sentral to the airport by speed train, which only takes 28 minutes, and a normal trip to the station only takes about 10 minutes. No problem. Freshly showered and still glowing from my brilliant massage, yummy street-soup, and wanders through the orchid garden, I was in high spirits. The driver was lively and interesting, an adept tour guide (so wish I'd met him the first day!), who took the opportunity of avoiding traffic on the usual route to show me a few of the sites I'd missed (allbeit on the fly)...like the ASEAN sculpture park and a couple of funky temples. I took his name-card for future excursions through the city, and thanked him profusely at the gate of the speed train for his excellent service. Still over 3 hours remained.
The check-in counters are not well advertised, so it was only when the security guard saw my ticket with Malaysian Air accidentally while I was looking for my return train ticket that he motioned me over to the inconspicous line. 'Wow!' I thought, 'This is so great! I don't even have to lug my suitcase with me on the train...'. And only one person ahead of me in line!
Waiting for my turn up at the counter, I remember my winter coat tucked conveniently into the front pocket of my new suitcase. Don't want to arrive in New Zealand without that! Better get out a sweater for the flight too. Oh ya! My New Zealand cash...better not forget about that!! I reach into the pocket I am absolutely certain I put the money in and...nothing. I motion the person behind me in line to go ahead and dig a little deeper. Still nothing. I set the backpack on top of my suitcase and pull things out of it one by one. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
It's here. It's got to be here. It's here, it's here, it's here. It's GOT to be here. Oh God, oh God, oh God. It's not here. But it's GOT to be here! Oh God.
I have taken everything out of every bag, more than once. Several other passengers have come and gone through the line without paying me any attention at all. The three large men behind the counter are beginning to laugh at the expression on my face. What am I going to do?? I carefully zip each item back into its place, clip every clip and snap every snap. Check in first, can't miss the flight. Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. It's not here. Oh God.
The man at checkout is very kind and very efficient. He dispenses with the 'Did you pack these bags yourself?' questions, and goes straight to 'window or aisle?' He has seen absolutely everything that I am taking with me, several times. I go from the counter directly to the pay phones at the back of the hall to call the guesthouse. I distinctly remember seeing the packet of money on my bed there this morning when I was repacking...perhaps instead of putting it into the front pocket of my bag like I think I did I left it there? I know there is no way that it could have been lost between the guesthouse and here, so they are the natural next place to search. I drop my only coin into the machine and dial.
No one is answering at the number I have.
The back-up number is busy.
The first number is not in service.
The back-up number won't connect.
The first number is not in service.
This is ridiculous!!! I drop the coin in again and call Yoga instead.
It goes straight to voicemail. My coin does not come back.
Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. It's not here. Oh God. What now???
I go to the bemused security guard and explain the situation to him. I have left some very, very important papers back at my guesthouse in Bukit Bintang. My flight is in approximately 2 and a half hours. Do I have time to go back to the guesthouse, return to Sentral and make it to the airport in time to catch my flight? He says I do. And directs me through the maze of station to the pre-paid taxi counter where I first met Yoga days ago.
There is a long line of people waiting in line, but for some unfathomable reason a uniformed man at one end of the counter waves me directly up to the counter. Being now in a race with the clock, I don't stop to wonder why. I repeat my story to him, a little faster, and ask if it's possible. He assures me that it is. The taxi fare will be 25RM one way. What??? I stop and stare at him. Is this a joke? It was only 11RM to go 3 days ago, I say. That's by budget taxi, he replies, this is a deluxe taxi, if you'd prefer a budget you are welcome to please join the end of that line... He smiles like a cat that's just eaten a canary, knowing there is no way I can wait. Everyone in the line is staring at me, some of them amused, some of them sympathetic. I pay my 25RM and literally run out of the station alongside the counter man to the furthest cab in the line.
The traffic is much more dense now than it was less than an hour ago when I came in with the other driver. I resist the temptation to lean physically into the oncoming mass of cars, pressing an invisible speed peddle in a vain attempt to speed up. For better of for worse, I am back on the streets of KL. And there is nothing I can do right now. I take a deep breath and consciously relax. The driver knows I am in a hurry, is appologetic when the cars choking the roadway ahead refuse to give way and let us through. I try to look around and enjoy the ride. The whole situation is too absurd not to. When we finally near the guesthouse I ask him just to pull over to the side of the road and wait. He agrees readily, knowing he will get a return fair as well. I run through the back alley back to the guesthouse gate.
Andrew is very surprised to see me back. He welcomes me like an old friend. I am already explaining the situation to him through the bars as he unlocks the gate. He grasps the seriousness immediately. Everyone in the entire place is pressed into service searching for the missing cash. But it does not appear. Mattresses are turned over, garbages emptied, floors swept, even the laundry sifted through. Descriptions of the money and where it was when I last saw it and absolutely everything else I did the entire day are repeated and relayed. Everyone else's daily routine is repeated and relayed as well. It is not here. Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. It's not here. Oh God. It's now less than 2 hours until my flight leaves, from the airport 50 km away from the city, at rush hour. I run back down the alley to the still-waiting cab.
A man on the street demands 2RM for parking. I ignore him. The taxi driver ignores him. I am strangely calm. He is surprised when I tell him that I did not find the papers I was looking for, assuming from my demeanor that our trip must have been successfull. He drives me past 'the king's house' on the way to Sentral, makes a point of talking more and showing me more of the sites along the way. I have just lost approximately $500 - nearly a month's rent in New Zealand. But instead of crying I am marvelling at how tiny all the headstones are in the ancient graveyard, and how much gold there is on the palace walls. He thanks me profusely when I give him another 25 RM, the cost of the return portion of the journey, and wishes me well.
I get to the train platform just in time to catch the outbound train - good luck, since there is a 15 minute wait between each one. It deposits me at the airport just before 8pm. My flight is just after 9. I go all the way from the basement to the top of the building, 5th floor, to the departures level, only to be directed by security back down a floor to immigration. After that, he says, I will have to take a train to another terminal to catch my flight. We both look nervously at the large clock at the end of the hall when he says this.
Immigration is fast and easy. The next train shorter than I remember from my incoming trip. Security at this airport is different than in other places, occurring at each gate in addition to when you enter the building, so when I arrive at my gate it's just opening. A lot of people are lounging on the floor against the glass security walls looking tired and cranky, glaring at the incoming security personnel. I get immediately into line, and make it through with minutes to spare.
Exhausted and beginning to worry, I take out my laptop to see if there is any wireless service I can use to send an email in the last few minutes while I wait for the flight. Chasing a bit of wire down into the bag, I discover something incredible...a hidden security pouch on the inside of the bag connected to the main outer pocket. Hello, where did that come from, I never knew that was there before...? What's that inside? MY MONEY!!! It's here. It's here. It's here, it's here, it's here! It's HERE!! Oh God, oh God, oh God. IT'S HERE!
Everyone in the waiting room stares at me uneasily when I begin to laugh out loud, right in the middle of the room. I put my laptop back, and laugh and laugh and laugh.
It's here. It's here. It's here, it's here, it's here! It's HERE!! Oh God, oh God, oh God! IT'S HERE! IT'S HERE! IT'S HERE!!
I am crouched on the floor of the incredibly convenient KL Sentral airline check-in, my suitcase and carry on both open and all my stuff spread out on the tiles around me. None of the steady-but-light stream of passengers going through the tape-queues beside me pay me any attention, too intent on their own impending travel plans. The three large men behind the counter are wearing identical curious smirks whenever they look in my direction. I am not the first person they have seen do this. I pick up each item in turn, examine it, set it aside. I unzip,zip,unzip,zip each pocket, compulsively fingering through the interiors. I pat down each bag, inside and out. Once. Twice. A third time. Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. It's not here. Oh God.
Not wanting to worry my way through rush hour traffic, which I'd been warned can be deadly, I set out for KL Sentral by taxi about 3 and a half hours before my flight. I already had a ticket from Sentral to the airport by speed train, which only takes 28 minutes, and a normal trip to the station only takes about 10 minutes. No problem. Freshly showered and still glowing from my brilliant massage, yummy street-soup, and wanders through the orchid garden, I was in high spirits. The driver was lively and interesting, an adept tour guide (so wish I'd met him the first day!), who took the opportunity of avoiding traffic on the usual route to show me a few of the sites I'd missed (allbeit on the fly)...like the ASEAN sculpture park and a couple of funky temples. I took his name-card for future excursions through the city, and thanked him profusely at the gate of the speed train for his excellent service. Still over 3 hours remained.
The check-in counters are not well advertised, so it was only when the security guard saw my ticket with Malaysian Air accidentally while I was looking for my return train ticket that he motioned me over to the inconspicous line. 'Wow!' I thought, 'This is so great! I don't even have to lug my suitcase with me on the train...'. And only one person ahead of me in line!
Waiting for my turn up at the counter, I remember my winter coat tucked conveniently into the front pocket of my new suitcase. Don't want to arrive in New Zealand without that! Better get out a sweater for the flight too. Oh ya! My New Zealand cash...better not forget about that!! I reach into the pocket I am absolutely certain I put the money in and...nothing. I motion the person behind me in line to go ahead and dig a little deeper. Still nothing. I set the backpack on top of my suitcase and pull things out of it one by one. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
It's here. It's got to be here. It's here, it's here, it's here. It's GOT to be here. Oh God, oh God, oh God. It's not here. But it's GOT to be here! Oh God.
I have taken everything out of every bag, more than once. Several other passengers have come and gone through the line without paying me any attention at all. The three large men behind the counter are beginning to laugh at the expression on my face. What am I going to do?? I carefully zip each item back into its place, clip every clip and snap every snap. Check in first, can't miss the flight. Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. It's not here. Oh God.
The man at checkout is very kind and very efficient. He dispenses with the 'Did you pack these bags yourself?' questions, and goes straight to 'window or aisle?' He has seen absolutely everything that I am taking with me, several times. I go from the counter directly to the pay phones at the back of the hall to call the guesthouse. I distinctly remember seeing the packet of money on my bed there this morning when I was repacking...perhaps instead of putting it into the front pocket of my bag like I think I did I left it there? I know there is no way that it could have been lost between the guesthouse and here, so they are the natural next place to search. I drop my only coin into the machine and dial.
No one is answering at the number I have.
The back-up number is busy.
The first number is not in service.
The back-up number won't connect.
The first number is not in service.
This is ridiculous!!! I drop the coin in again and call Yoga instead.
It goes straight to voicemail. My coin does not come back.
Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. It's not here. Oh God. What now???
I go to the bemused security guard and explain the situation to him. I have left some very, very important papers back at my guesthouse in Bukit Bintang. My flight is in approximately 2 and a half hours. Do I have time to go back to the guesthouse, return to Sentral and make it to the airport in time to catch my flight? He says I do. And directs me through the maze of station to the pre-paid taxi counter where I first met Yoga days ago.
There is a long line of people waiting in line, but for some unfathomable reason a uniformed man at one end of the counter waves me directly up to the counter. Being now in a race with the clock, I don't stop to wonder why. I repeat my story to him, a little faster, and ask if it's possible. He assures me that it is. The taxi fare will be 25RM one way. What??? I stop and stare at him. Is this a joke? It was only 11RM to go 3 days ago, I say. That's by budget taxi, he replies, this is a deluxe taxi, if you'd prefer a budget you are welcome to please join the end of that line... He smiles like a cat that's just eaten a canary, knowing there is no way I can wait. Everyone in the line is staring at me, some of them amused, some of them sympathetic. I pay my 25RM and literally run out of the station alongside the counter man to the furthest cab in the line.
The traffic is much more dense now than it was less than an hour ago when I came in with the other driver. I resist the temptation to lean physically into the oncoming mass of cars, pressing an invisible speed peddle in a vain attempt to speed up. For better of for worse, I am back on the streets of KL. And there is nothing I can do right now. I take a deep breath and consciously relax. The driver knows I am in a hurry, is appologetic when the cars choking the roadway ahead refuse to give way and let us through. I try to look around and enjoy the ride. The whole situation is too absurd not to. When we finally near the guesthouse I ask him just to pull over to the side of the road and wait. He agrees readily, knowing he will get a return fair as well. I run through the back alley back to the guesthouse gate.
Andrew is very surprised to see me back. He welcomes me like an old friend. I am already explaining the situation to him through the bars as he unlocks the gate. He grasps the seriousness immediately. Everyone in the entire place is pressed into service searching for the missing cash. But it does not appear. Mattresses are turned over, garbages emptied, floors swept, even the laundry sifted through. Descriptions of the money and where it was when I last saw it and absolutely everything else I did the entire day are repeated and relayed. Everyone else's daily routine is repeated and relayed as well. It is not here. Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. It's not here. Oh God. It's now less than 2 hours until my flight leaves, from the airport 50 km away from the city, at rush hour. I run back down the alley to the still-waiting cab.
A man on the street demands 2RM for parking. I ignore him. The taxi driver ignores him. I am strangely calm. He is surprised when I tell him that I did not find the papers I was looking for, assuming from my demeanor that our trip must have been successfull. He drives me past 'the king's house' on the way to Sentral, makes a point of talking more and showing me more of the sites along the way. I have just lost approximately $500 - nearly a month's rent in New Zealand. But instead of crying I am marvelling at how tiny all the headstones are in the ancient graveyard, and how much gold there is on the palace walls. He thanks me profusely when I give him another 25 RM, the cost of the return portion of the journey, and wishes me well.
I get to the train platform just in time to catch the outbound train - good luck, since there is a 15 minute wait between each one. It deposits me at the airport just before 8pm. My flight is just after 9. I go all the way from the basement to the top of the building, 5th floor, to the departures level, only to be directed by security back down a floor to immigration. After that, he says, I will have to take a train to another terminal to catch my flight. We both look nervously at the large clock at the end of the hall when he says this.
Immigration is fast and easy. The next train shorter than I remember from my incoming trip. Security at this airport is different than in other places, occurring at each gate in addition to when you enter the building, so when I arrive at my gate it's just opening. A lot of people are lounging on the floor against the glass security walls looking tired and cranky, glaring at the incoming security personnel. I get immediately into line, and make it through with minutes to spare.
Exhausted and beginning to worry, I take out my laptop to see if there is any wireless service I can use to send an email in the last few minutes while I wait for the flight. Chasing a bit of wire down into the bag, I discover something incredible...a hidden security pouch on the inside of the bag connected to the main outer pocket. Hello, where did that come from, I never knew that was there before...? What's that inside? MY MONEY!!! It's here. It's here. It's here, it's here, it's here! It's HERE!! Oh God, oh God, oh God. IT'S HERE!
Everyone in the waiting room stares at me uneasily when I begin to laugh out loud, right in the middle of the room. I put my laptop back, and laugh and laugh and laugh.
It's here. It's here. It's here, it's here, it's here! It's HERE!! Oh God, oh God, oh God! IT'S HERE! IT'S HERE! IT'S HERE!!
posted by Roberta | 4:42 PM
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