Bukit Bintang, Kuala Lumpur

I’m in Bukit Bintang. It’s lively. Busy. Singers, buskers, bands, dancers, music from cafes, restaurants, shops all booming out. The traffic is thick with cars, taxis, motorbikes, scooters and boy racers revving like it’s Tokyo Drift.

All the shops are open, and each shop has at least one person beckoning us all to come in. “Sir! You want a haircut?” and “Happy hour. All nice, lady."

I’ve already been offered several massages, reflexology, shisha, henna, sunglasses, fake Nike, Armani etc.

There are lights and giant screens, thick with advertising everywhere. It’s rainy season. It’s hot, hot, hot, and the air is tropical, thick. There are regular puddles. It’s not always clear if these are just from rain.

The drains stink, and the streets are punctuated with... with... I was going to call them beggars, but many of them have passed beyond that stage, simply lying in the street, lacking even a receptacle to collect coins in.

I see one tiny man, maybe 40-45 year of age. He’s wearing torn shorts and a thin T-shirt. No shoes. No bag—not even a plastic one. He’s unshaven, asleep on a small bit of cardboard.

I see another man, also asleep, with his back to the passersby. His trousers have split up the back. He has no underwear, and his naked bony arse is exposed to us all.

These men look like they have lain down to die. If there’s any mercy, then end will soon come. All life has already gone from them, apart from the final bit that keeps their vital organs going.

Meanwhile, young women in burkas and niqabs, either in small groups or accompanied by slender men in faded jeans, flip-flops, and open-necked shirts, bustle past, all gazing at their phones.

This is a capital city. The hipsters and the beautiful people are out, too. Tall, skinny Chinese girls, all made up and mini-skirted, pout while brandishing high-end phones and well-varnished nails.

The buxom Chinese hooker almost stamps her foot when I stroll pass, with a polite “No thanks,” and a broad smile. I’m a foreigner, for Chrissakes! Overweight and middle-aged, to boot. If she can’t even pull me, it could be a tough night.

Arabic pop music booms while I eat hummus with flatbread and sambousek—lamb in pastry—all washed down with a delicious mint lemonade. I know it’s gluten and carbs, but I’ve had rice twice today already. Is it today? I’ve lost track of where I am. Friday didn’t seem to stop, and Saturday just never came.

The entire meal, including the tip, cost less than $13, USD.

The waiter is a young Malay. The serving staff look my way from time to time. When we make eye contact, I smile and they smile back. Malaysians are generally friendly.

Testing this theory further, I stop off at a night market. There’s a circle of food, and vans with tables and chairs in the middle. Everyone is either Malay or Chinese. There are small children wandering around, and an older man dismantling shisha pipes. No tourists. No foreigners.

I was warned when I first came to KL not to engage with any Malay women. “It’s not that they won’t respond. They might. They might even like it. Possibly a lot. But, their fathers, brothers, or uncles will not take kindly to it if they see you, and you could find yourself in quite a bit of bother.”

I haven’t bothered to test the advice.

There are lots of families and couples, especially Malay couples. The couples maintain a discrete distance between each other, taking care not to touch.

In the background, sirens wail and motorbikes roar but, in the market, there are happy sounds.

I buy a giant plastic tub of blitzed watermelon and ice with a plastic straw in it, which is handed to me in a clear, plastic carrier bag.

I take it to a table and sit down. I’m blond. I’m pink. I’m alone. I’m the only white guy in the entire place, but no one bats an eyelid.

It’s 10:50 PM, and I’m almost at my hotel. It feels way too early to go back, but there seems to be little point in staying out.

I’m glad I chose to stay in this area. I’m wondering if it’s like this every night. The first time I came here, I stayed out until 3 AM, drinking Iranian tea and smoking shisha with an Indonesian, an Egyptian, an Indian, and two Filipinos.

As the night grows longer, the families and kids will thin out. Only the hardcore remain, and to be in that demographic, you need fuel—either alcohol, or a desire to purchase sex.

It changes the atmosphere, and adds an edge. I decide I’ve had the best of the evening, and saunter back to my posh hotel, ready for a shower, some air conditioning, and bed.