Toward the end of our tour, such a strategic locative factor starts to play a more and more prominent role in our destination selections. Do we really want to go to Krabi? Not really. Is it half way between Phuket and Bangkok? Krabi it is.

The other slightly more curious reason for taking in Kuala Lumpur is because Sheila’s boss spends half the year here. And when you hear so much about a certain location, even in passing, it does pique one’s interest to the extent that swinging by and taking in the sights becomes exceedingly attractive.

We arrive in Kuala Lumpur (herein referred to as KL – an abbreviation even the locals are comfortable with apparently) early in the morning and immediately hit the trains to take us into the centre of the city.

From the offset, KL looks cloudy, a tad more worn than Singapore and not as painfully humid. Low, dense clouds hang over the city like a cooling blanket as the train eventually deposits us deeper into the metropolis district. A sign hangs in the infrastructural hub of KL’s Central Station claiming Malaysian hospitality is akin to welcoming a friend into your own house. Maybe friends in Malaysia get a raw deal upon arriving at a friend’s home, destined to wander around the complex with no assistance as to where the bathroom is as, for the life of us, we can’t find the monorail station in the catacomb-esque building. Even after asking, we’re given directions about as helpful as someone telling you to follow the setting sun when informing them that your hotel is “west of here.”

After a half an hour of increasing frustration, we twig that the bloody monorail station isn’t even in Central Station; KL’s nexus for a myriad of travel options in Malaysia’s capital which, for some unknown reason, doesn’t extend to the monorail persuasion. This is despite KL being quite proud of their monorail network. You’d think they’d clearly sign where the fucking thing is.

In a flash of empathy, I finally realise what it must be like for a visitor to Dublin who, marvelling at the gray skies and dilapidated state of the airport they’ve just landed in, find out that there is no way of getting in to the city other than on a meandering, infrequent bus or by feeding themselves to pernicious taxi bandits queuing up outside. These same chiselers who persistently grumble that, in these dark days, they have to actually work for a living.

We exit Central and trek toward the direction of where we think we need to go. It’s a good introduction to KL street-life as we quickly ascertain the differences between this new city and the one we’ve just left. Compared to Singapore, KL is a battered yet tenacious entity. It’s not as clean as Singapore, nor as regimented. Many paths are broken, bridges and buildings are festooned with equal amounts of advertisements and detritus; as if the place has been so busy growing that someone forgot to clear up the empty boxes in the wake of such expansion. It’s not necessarily a dirty city by any stretch of the imagination (I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that it’s cleaner than Dublin for example), but, after the pristine, civic monstrosity of Singapore so fresh in our minds, it does appear slightly dishevelled if not simply “well used.”

Getting on to the monorail is like walking through a feeding frenzy, and it’s here I witness my first example of Malaysian rudeness. It might be a cultural thing but, it appears that here in KL it’s pretty much every bastard for himself. People will ignore queues and push right past to the top, nudge you out of the way in order to gain access to a train before you do, and generally jostle, squeeze and dismiss you if it means gaining any advantage.

On one particular occasion when boarding a train, laden with baggage and first to board, a man leans into me and then keeps pushing forward to access the train before me. I call after him in a loud voice, informing him and the entire train that he is, in fact, “a fucking ignorant prick.” Another man beside me, who, from the glint in his eye and ready-to-strike body-language I can tell was just about to do the same thing, smiles and waves me on. It’s a strange experience to be in such a discourteous place but I quickly learn that, if you’re going to survive in Malaysia, be prepared to confront people or risk getting trampled on.

The monorail is quaint and winds its way into the city like a short silent snake, leaning into the curves of the stone track like a subtle ice-skater. At one station, three Coca-Cola clad reps join the throng and request our attention. Turning my head away from the cityscape outside, they inform us that they’re going to teach us how to drink Coke. Pretty sure I’ve got the technique down after 31 years of constant cola consumption, I’m surprised that it actually entails sparking a can, taking a deep gulp, and then shaking like a lunatic. Startled, they offer me a free can of which I accept. They then get off, likely to catch the next train and do the same routine again.

We soon arrive in Raja Chulan without any further mentally questionable disruptions, and after the obligatory “Which way is north?” antics, we walk the short distance to our accommodation, the Rainforest B&B.

It’s at this point we get our first introduction to Malaysian traffic rules – or, more accurately, the complete lack of them. Cars careen through red lights. Motorbikes, speeding along at a rate that suggests Malaysia probably has a higher road traffic fatality rate than Ireland (a mean feat I should add), pretty much drive wherever they like; on to paths, across islands, up the wrong way of busy streets. It’s total bedlam, and I’m sure many a visitor to the city doesn’t make it out alive after meeting a grisly end at the hand of an erratic road user.

The B&B is pleasant and run by a small group of truly helpful and friendly staff. We do spend the first half of day one sweating like pigs in the room only to enquire about a possible malfunctioning air-con system and be handed the remote control device at the front desk. But it’s forgivable, if purely down to our own stupidity for not asking about it sooner. I’m also sure they had a good laugh at the painfully white foreigners sitting in their room, trying to connect to the free wifi and losing kilos of water in the oppressive heat.

It’s at this point we decide to pretty much wash every piece of clothing we have. We’re given a ridiculously low price (per kilo) and, the following day, a small Malaysian girl, encumbered by the sheer weight of the load, drags a basket back in from the laundry room. “So big!” she says. I don’t disagree, simply standing there marvelling at the sight of all my clothes; clean, pressed and stacked in a formation they haven’t experienced in nearly three months. We pack the clothes away and head back out into the heat.

Malaysia is officially a Muslim nation, my second of such to visit since Morocco some years ago. It’s not really a talking point to be honest, though it is always intriguing for a Westerner to witness the ethnical traits and nuances of a different culture; especially one as exotic and different as the Muslim way of life. About half the women wear the hajib, while a rare few go the whole hog and are dressed in the complete black burqa. After some rudimentary research in the area, I learn that whether or not a woman decides to wear the headdress is more to do with their (or most likely their family’s) interpretation of the Quran. Much like how some Christians actually go to church on Sunday and worship, while others still classify themselves as such because they were “born into the faith” and would rather now spend their Sundays in the pub. OK, so it’s not entirely synonymous. It is intriguing to note that the majority of servers in restaurants and the likes of Starbucks are women. And they all wear the hajib. And, for some reason I can’t really understand, they’re nearly all painfully gloomy.

I find it a tad ironic that, though the main reason behind the burqa (which, and I mean no disrespect, I can’t help but be reminded of a ninja whenever I see a woman wearing it) is to hide a woman’s virtues away from anyone but their husband, I find myself paying more attention to the women in question. Maybe it’s the novelty of the whole spectacle, but I can’t help but watch. Seeing just a pair of dark eyes staring back out from beneath the cloth is strangely alluring and exotic. Which I’m pretty sure is the direct opposite intention of wearing such a restrictive garb in the first place.

The biggest attraction KL has to offer is the Petronas Twin Towers. Once the largest building(s) in the world, the dual monuments to man’s ingenuity and quest to reach ever higher are now relegated to third place in the tall buildings stakes. Despite this loss of World’s Tallest title (to Taipei 101 if you’re interested, which has also since been surpassed) the Petronas Towers are the best thing about KL by far. And, lucky you, if you go to KL, you literally can’t miss them.

We walk toward them from the south-west, and due to some trick of the light (or more accurately the angle at which approach) for a short while it would appear that we’ve all been duped and there is is actually only one tower. Highest Twin Towers in the world my ass. The illusion is shattered, however, when we start to make our way around the base of Tower 1. It’s a testament to just how large the towers are that you can walk around one for so long and still not see the other until it finally appears, like an arrow of pure light thundering upwards toward a dizzying height.

Rising from the ground like a pair of huge tapered missiles, the Twin Towers look quite different depending on the time of day when viewed. By day, the towers are icy columns of green tinted glass. White and light gray metal, all rippling ever-upwards like two humungous waves of constantly folding recesses. When night falls, however, they light up like two sparkling crystals; twin emblems of prosperity and engineering mastery, huge and emanating light like a second sun in the night’s balmy sky. It’s spectacular to look at and a feat unrivalled by other tall buildings (like the Empire State Building for example, which is only fractionally smaller than each of the Petronas Towers) simply because the others are mostly constructed from brick and mortar. Having the towers encased in glass from top to bottom was an ingenious idea and, of all the man-made sights I’ve seen on my travels so far, I have to admit that nothing surpasses Petronas. Nothing by a long shot.

We spend a lot of time in the buildings, or at least in the shopping centre below, looking ever-upwards and always mindful of just what is above us, towering into the sky like a monstrous shining Babel.

When not in Petronas, we visit the KL Tower, another super-structure situated close-by to the Twin Towers and, not to be left out and overshadowed by the nearby Petronas spectacle, is the fourth largest tower in the world and taller than Petronas by a significant margin.

I should mention at this point that the classification of world’s highest building/structure/tower/whatever is a confusing tangle of red-tape, claims and counter-claims – a lot depending on interpretation, various definitions and where your building is in relation to the third moon of Saturn. Do you count spires? What about antenna? For example: there are storeys on the (Whatcha talkin’ about) Willis Tower (formerly the Sears’ Tower) in Chicago that are higher than the highest floor on Petronas, but the latter’s spire creeps over the top floor of Willis. Despite being nowhere near the top of the pinnacle of Willis’ double antenna (and we’re not counting antennas, remember?), Petronas is deemed higher. Which is actually higher? You decide.

When it comes to freestanding towers, however, the debate is a little less heated. With no-one but the crows living in these spires, the measuring tape simply stops at the top. OK, so there is some debate, mostly focusing on whether or not the tower starts on land or if you count the part of the structure that is underwater. But I’m not going there.

We take the elevator up to the top. It takes so long for the trip to finish (nearly a full minute) that an annoying Indian gentleman informs the elevator operator that he thinks it’s broken. She looks at him like he’s completely demented and asks him not to worry. I’m pretty sure she makes this journey hundreds of times per day. I’m guessing she’d know if the fucking thing was broken.

We leave the elevator and walk around the observation deck. Its circular layout is chockfull of trinkets and screaming children running about the place, gluing their noses to the windows and hogging the prodigious view of KL below.

We find it slightly amusing when we come across the “comparison” models: a series of frosted glass replicas of the world’s highest towers standing alert against the curved observation deck wall, the one we’re standing in right now proudly appearing fourth in the line-up. It’s amusing as we can literally walk past the models and say “Seen it, seen it, don’t want to see it, in it, seen it, haven’t seen it …”. It’s like the collection is a vague monument to our recent travels considering the towers of Toronto, Sydney, and Auckland all feature.

Ironically, like befriending the fat friend to get closer to the girl you want, we use the KL Tower for taking photos of the Petronas Towers which is literally less than half a kilometre away. It’s cloudy the day we go up, the towers shrouded in mist and mystery, but we get an unique perspective of their design, and the venture is worth doing if painfully touristy.

Connecting the two towers across from our view is the Sky Bridge – an interconnector between the buildings roughly half-way up between the super-structures. Getting up on to the Sky Bridge is free, the only price an early start to get down to the towers and queue for tickets. It’s first come, first served however, and despite valiant attempts to rise at seven and make the ten minute trek down to the ticket office (we even set an alarm), it just never happens.

It’s within the Petronas shopping centre that Sheila picks up a companion lens to the one she haggled over in Singapore, this time a wide-angle jobby we get to use on the final leg of our journey. Though I’m sure there was some back and forth over the price to be had, we pretty much pay the same as we did for the other lens without much scandal. I’m also pretty sure the guy knew we weren’t there for the taking after informing him straight up what we purchased the first lens for in Singapore. It’s almost like a pilfering defence mechanism. “We paid this amount for this product, we’re not paying much more for something so similar so don’t even think about it, Buddy.”

KL is a hive of activity and splendour. It’s chaotic splendour, however, and, as a vacationing city, it doesn’t really hold up to much scrutiny. We’re there for a couple of days, and by the end of it we’re happy to leave. The towers are magnificent, truly something worth checking out, but the rest of the city is simply a sprawling mass of dangerous traffic, peculiar diners and some of the most hardcore locals you’re ever likely to come across.

We make it back to the airport in pretty good shape and board for Penang.