The Foreign Local

Night fell heavily out of the sky. Equator hugging countries are all familiar with these rapid influxes of darkness – be it a sudden storm or an swift sunset. The same countries function on flexible time because of it. Or at least, that’s what I blame their chronic tardiness on; on navigating the elements rather than clocks.

You can imagine I was surprised to realize I arrived at Kuala Lumpur International Airport not late, as per general Asian rule, but 45 minutes early.

The doors slid open and the scent of warm rain puddles greeted me. Upon seeing me, a crowd of taxi drivers promise to take me to town for a ‘good price, ma’am!’. Chuckling, I realized that though Malaysia feels like home, my 6ft. tall, white body will forever prohibit me from truly blending in.

‘To Kepong please, uncle’, I tell the driver nearest to me. ‘Kepong, ma’am? Ohhh that’s FAR, traffic’s…’, ‘bad, it rained, the sun has set and it’s Friday’, I complete his sentence. ‘Tahu, I know. Just gimme good price, lah’. Surprised, he exclaims; ‘Ahh, you local!’. The other taxi drivers laugh and move on to my fellow fresh arrivals.

‘Kepong, ma’am?’, the driver repeats his disbelief as we drive through the neon night. I understand his confusion; I don’t remember ever coming across an ‘orang putih’, or white person, there. Tourists stay uptown in hotels, whereas expats live in specific areas on the outer edges of the city. One of those expat-areas was my initial introduction to Malaysia: Baskin Robbins down the street, Starbucks across, a Wendy’s next to a MacDonald’s and a 7/11 for an all-day consumerist fix. I thought I had accepted a job in Asia, but I felt like I took a wrong turn into an American city, instead.

I hated it.

So I moved in with a friend in Kepong; a move my Malaysian friends regarded as a total downgrade and which my expat friends thought of as completely bonkers. What it gave me, though, was a perfect mix of what Kuala Lumpur is about; a lovechild of East and West, a hodgepodge of all shades of Asian, traditional villages amidst office jungle and prayer houses from all walks of life adjacent to modern malls.

Now we finally drive into my old street, a lively scene greets us; people enjoying steaming bowls of goodness; my ancient neighbour still selling fresh coconuts on the corner, his wife next to him in her Snoopy pyjama gown. Yes, I still am the only foreigner, but the traffic jam has made up for a foreign early arrival, and it still feels like coming home.