1966: Kuala Lumpur

I live in certainly the most obscure capital city in southeast Asia, and, perhaps for that fact, one of the most interesting. Kuala Lumpur began as a tin mining town a little more than 100 years ago. The name means just about what it sounds like – “muddy river mouth “– and 100 years ago that is exactly what the site was, a muddy, malarial area, where the Klang and Gombak rivers met.  After two decades of growing pains occasioned largely by the friction between rival Chinese secret societies (some of which are still powerful today), KUala Lumpur settled down to a patient, gradual development under the direction of her first British resident, Swettenham.  She became the seat of government of the Straits Settlements (Singapore, Penang, and Malacca) in 1880, and has not since relinquished her primacy.

Kuala Lumpur impressed me first with her size: she is a tiny capital of a tiny country. Although her growth rate has been one of the highest in the world since the war, she still harbors less than 400,000 people, and I find it quite easy to bicycle her entire length in 10 minutes. But KL manages to cram into her a few square miles of jungle clearing a truly fantastic array of people, buildings, sites, sounds, and (alas) smells.

You must come to KL if you want to see people: San Francisco’s Market Street, or New York’s Times Square have nothing on Petaling Street or Jalan Mountbatten. There you can see Malays in colorful singkoks, bajus, and sarongs, turbanned Sikhs, slender cheongsam-clad Chinese girls, lovely Tamil women in brilliant saris, saffron-robed Buddhist monks, hilarious Englishman in pith helmet, knee socks, and side whiskers, and even a few funny looking American Peace Corps volunteers in white Levi’s and tennies. Other countries may have sprinklings of many different races and nationalities, but only in Malaysia do they all (except for us Westerners) represent substantial parts of the population. Incidentally, despite this fantastic conglomeration, I have seen very few “mixed" breeds. They talk a lot about racial harmony in this country, but Malaysian‘s haven’t even come close to the intermarriage stage yet, except in the special case, when a local manages to land an “orang puteh" (white man).

Kuala Lumpur's buildings offer just as colorful contrasts as do her people. The American International Insurance building is as modern as anything in Manhattan, the railway station with its minarets and spires is straight from the pages of the Arabian Nights. Batu Road is bordered on one side by stately Moorish style government buildings, complete with turrets and peppermint-stick coloring, while across the street, the inveterate British stride out into the noonday sun every week for a friendly match on the Selangor Club's beautiful cricket field. Further west is the magnificent new $10 million national mosque, with its 235 foot snow white minaret and blue, transparent domes, while to the east, in Kampong Baru (a Malay Reserve), can be found traditional Malay kampong stilt houses among Coco palms and banana plants. If I add to these sites, the plush European homes at Kenny hill, the cramped Chinese quarters above their omnipresent building stalls on Petaling Street, the King's Palace, the housing tracts of the new industrial complex at Petaling Jaya, and the high-rise apartments just up the street from my hostel, I have only begun to hint at the architectural dither this city is in. Even after living in KL for almost a year, I can still have a whale of a time just walking slowly through town. By the way, in just a few years, this may be the only possible way of moving in KL, for by then, the number of cars, motorcycles, buses, bullock carts, bicycles, tryshaws, cows, and mad taxis will have surely increased far beyond the city's capacity for them.

Let me round off this catalog of impressions with a guided stroll downtown. The sun is shining, the clouds are high and wispy, the temperature is 95°, and the humidity is 98%; in short, it’s a lovely day for a walk. As I leave the hostel compound, I sidestep the two vicious, slathering mastiffs the cook keeps as pets, walk through the herd of cows mowing our front lawn, and step into the street (to avoid being hit by cars). Around the corner, a dozen hostrel boys spy me from the second floor, and begin their interrogation. I told them I am off for a date with Miss Malaysia, and about half of the boys believe me. The others aren’t sure. One thing is certain: they still haven’t figured me out yet. It may take a full two years before I am completely disassociated in their minds with their Hollywood movie magazine image of all Americans.

On my left is a lovely park, built by the Chinese community in honor of the Prime Minister, Tunku Abdul Rahman. In the middle of the park is a large metal statue in the shape of a mushroom. The Chinese word for “mushroom" is pronounced “Tunku“. No love is lost between the Chinese and the Malays over here. From my window I have witnessed over a half dozen muggings in the Tunku Abdul Rahman Park, and last month we even had a rape and murder there. The police are very careful to give it a wide berth, and so am I. On my right is the Methodist Boys School, one of the better higher secondary schools in the country. Without the support of the Methodist and Catholic missionary schools, the higher secondary education in Malaysia would be in real trouble. Today the MBS halls are littered with anti-American leaflets in honor of President Johnson’s 21 hour stop over.

The first cross street I come to is Jalen Sultan, and it is jampacked on both sides with pet shops, Chinese clan halls, stationery stores, coffin stores, Chinese food stores, and even a western style snack bar. I stopped to watch the pet shop customers for a while, wondering once again what in the world they find so interesting in a dove or a hornbill that they can watch it steadily for three hours at a stretch. In front of the stationery store, the storekeeper is building a "car" out of sticks and paper, complete with chauffeur. Later it will be burnt over the grave of a newly departed relative, to assure him adequate transportation in the next world. Upstairs, a Chinese funeral band is either rehearsing or having a fight, I’m not sure which. Next door two mah-jongg tables are going full blast, and it looks like mother is the big winner.

I cross Pudu Street (no mean feat in itself), and come across the Nepalese merchants, squatting on the sidewalk with their wares. One fellow wants to sell me a star sapphire from Burma for two dollars. Another insists his rhinoceros horn can give me sexual powers, hitherto undreamed of. I shrug noncommittally and cross to Mountbatten Road, in the heart of town. Here are the large Indian department stores, selling exotically colored fabrics (at exotic prices) from all over the east. Across the street, at the bus stop, a magician and a snake charmer have each attracted about 50 onlookers. I stop and buy a cup of hot tea from a Tamil, who puts on quite an act himself by flipping the tea from one glass to another without spilling a drop. I stop again by the bridge over the Gumbak River and have some peanuts, a bowl of bean curd pudding, a piece of pineapple, and some rambutans, and pay the various vendors a total of $.15.

Ahead of me is my goal: Robinson’s department store, famed for its air conditioning and it’s beautiful sales girls. As I enter this firm, strong hold of British influence east of Suez, I bid each and every one of you a fond farewell from Muddy River Mouth city, Malaysia.