Travel Diaries: 2 Hours in Malaysia
I’ve never watched Steven Spielberg’s 2004 comedy-drama, The Terminal. I’ve also never watched the 1993 French film, Lost In Transit. To be honest, I haven’t even really read up about the true story of Iranian refugee Mehran Karimi Nasseri, upon which both of those films were based. I suppose if I was any good at this, I’d have familiarised myself with the plots of both movies and the story upon which it was based if I was going to flirt with the analogy of waiting in an airport for ages.
The point is, we had a two-hour layover in Malaysia, and it was a really infuriating experience, and felt a lot longer than a couple of hours.
We arrived at the airport in Phuket and battled and pushed our way through security, enduring nothing less than the meticulous, sensual pat-downs and rigorous questions about my dragon lighter souvenir that I bought in Hanoi. It’s like Groundhog Day…
“Sir, you cannot take this onboard.”
“It’s got no gas in, mate/love” (gender dependant).
They then test it out confusedly and call their manager over.
“There’s no gas in it,” I repeat, this time to the supervisor.
They test it out themselves, realise there’s no gas in it, and wave me on.
I was naturally apprehensive to board the Malaysia Airlines flight to Bali. They’re the Manchester United of the airline industry, the David Cameron of the skies - once well-respected and not associated with embarrassment and controversy, but now just a topic of laughter, wariness and lament.
The airline had a rough year in 2014. One flight went missing over the Indian Ocean and still hasn’t been found, and a few months later one of their planes got shot down by the Russians, with a combined 537 people perishing on both of those flights. We were hoping we wouldn’t have a repeat of either of those events - quite the opposite. We were hoping for a steady flight, soundtracked by The Rest Is History podcast, perhaps featuring a complementary snack and some free water.
The latter is just what we got, and soon enough we found ourselves landing in Kuala Lumpur International Airport feeling very satisfied with the service we’d received. Thankfully, this wasn’t a self-transfer, so we didn’t have to worry about collecting our checked-in bags or anything of the sort, we just had to sit and wait patiently for our connecting flight.
Sitting and waiting in Kuala Lumpur International Airport isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my time in Malaysia, though. Mismanagement of finances and poor scheduling had meant we’d (royal we) have to miss this country out, and it was really frustrating that we were so close to being able to tick it off the list of places we’d been. Instead, we only had a couple of hours and couldn’t leave the airport. Just a week prior to getting there we were considering our options and trying to make it work… there was so much to do; George Town, Ipoh, Cameron Highlands. I was absolute gutted not to be leaving the terminal.
It wasn’t all bad though - we could, if we so pleased, wander round the numerous confectionary shops and purchase some of the many Toblerone on offer. Alternatively, if our hearts desired, we could meander around some of the clothing stores, and perhaps grab some nice, new clothes for our trip to Bali. But, if we didn’t want to do that, we had ample time to sit and relax on some seats by the runway and watch the planes take off majestically, guessing where each flight was bound for. It was quite a jolly place, and we were jolly people. It was a relaxing place, and boy were we relaxed.
Mia choose to grab a seat and watch Bridgerton, whilst Eden and I wandered off to find the smoking area. Strangely, we couldn’t see any signs, so we politely asked a member of staff if they could point us in the right direction.
“Sorry, there is no smoking area in this terminal,” she replied.
“Great joke, love,” I thought to myself, before turning to Eden and saying, “they’re obviously jokers here in Malaysia, come on, let’s ask the next person.”
By the time we’d asked the third member of staff and received the same response, I began to grow a little bit tired of the joke.
By the time we’d asked the sixth or seventh member of staff, I realised it wasn’t a joke, and that this international airport terminal, a layover hotspot, which handles ninety-eight thousand passengers daily, did in fact not have a smoking area.
Well, I was beside myself with frustration. Suddenly, every aspect of this perfect, little airport was starting to really piss me off. The seats were uncomfortable. The clothes were expensive and ugly. Why was there so much fucking Toblerone everywhere?
I’ll do you the liberty of fast-forwarding ninety minutes at this point, because they were really boring, and at the time of the writing this (10 days on), I’ve actually stopped smoking so can’t really resonate with the anger that nicotine addiction brings when one has no access to a smoking area. It was all a bit blurry. But I was really annoyed and really bored.
At long last, we went towards our gate and underwent another security check, where I was rudely pushed in front of by an apologetic pilot.
“Sorry,” he shrugged, showing genuine remorse, to be fair.
“Ah it’s alright, mate.”
“Where you off to today then?” He asked, as if he wasn’t about to get on the same flight as me (I only realised this after).
“Denpasar,” I replied. “Bali.”
“Yep, us too.”
“Ah, are you my pilot?” I asked.
He nodded and said, “we’ll get you there in one piece.”
Well, that’s a bit rich coming from a Malaysia Airlines pilot, I thought.
“Just make sure you get us there quickly, please,” I said. “I’ve had a two-hour layover and there’s no pissing smoking area.”
How I’d gone from one extreme to the other, from wanting to be in a country so much to wanting to get the fuck out of there, in such a short space of time, was beyond me, but I could not wait to land in Bali…