The sky was filled with crimson paper lanterns, swaying in the hot, sticky breeze of Kuala Lumpur. Beads of sweat formed on occasional tourists passing by in their khaki shorts as Malaysians and Chinese people, as old as the earth, hunkered by their stalls. I admired the golden writing on those lanterns high above me; we had arrived in Chinatown.
My senses were overwhelmed as I weaved through the crowds, hemmed in between tall buildings that surrounding the main concourse. The city smog from Indonesia’s palm oil plantation burning was thick above us and set to linger at this time of year. It was a sad reminder of the many ways in which destroying the environment also destroys our health. I was, as were no doubt many others, thankful for the ready availability of surgical masks to breathe more easily. I ducked under multi-coloured umbrellas; more reminiscent of popular European beach destinations than the grubby and pungent alleyways of the city.
There were tables of fresh fruit of every colour imaginable and they tempted me until I sighted and smelled the staggeringly bad scent of durians when they were sliced open. The dictionary has no words for how lacking in gratitude I was for that experience until it had long passed me by. Only then, and with hindsight, could I appreciate it and be thankful they were not on my daily menu. The market main street was filled with an array of knock-off goods and, more unusually, bouquets of flowers containing teddy bears that were impossible to ignore because of their abundance and size. Enthusiastic sellers, hopeful of a profitable day, encouraged tourists in with promises of cheap goods, familiar labels and bargains not to be missed. I couldn’t help but notice that local shoppers were left to their own devices in spite of their numbers and obvious presence.
A street performer, clearly a long-travelled man with his ragged attire, smiled sweetly to himself, closed his eyes and slapped his drum to a beat he clearly enjoyed. Coins filled his old hat and the next time I passed him by he was upside down performing a steady, long-lasting headstand. His face turned red and then purple as he continued to smile blissfully. I walked on and pondered how beautiful and chaotic human life could be. Where had that evidently grateful, battle scarred and happy traveler come from? He had so little and yet so much. Malaysians greeted me warmly as I passed them by to explore the dank side alleys that were populated by Chinese food stalls, teeming with bubbling metal pots and the scents of sweet dim sum, soy sauce and food heaven. Chinese families huddled over their steaming bowls of soup and sat atop plastic chairs that wobbled unsteadily on cobbled stones. Elderly men leaned against the alley walls and dodged the open drains that trickled with water whilst they tended lovingly to their cats in cages. It was the picture of a more authentic experience I had longed to find. Drawn by the sound of singing, I returned to the main area and my heart fell into my shoes.
A young man, no more than twenty years old, was lying upon an old skateboard and pulling himself along the street with his hands. His legs were badly disfigured and bent up and over his back, contorted in unnatural positions that were clearly not for show. He wore a headset microphone and balanced an old stereo system on his board as he sang his heart out to Malaysian tunes and hoped for people to place their change in his donations box. His brown eyes were soulful and his singing energetic as he moved along, looking upwards and dodging the myriad of legs that swiftly sidestepped him. I could not begin to imagine his daily hurdles, the pain he must have been in and his feelings about life being so hard.
Yet there he was singing, hopeful and trying to make something of his circumstances. I watched him as I found my change to donate and was incredibly thankful that in some small way I could do something to help him. I was just another tourist to him but I had the ability to help and of course I did. Anyone would. The fire in his eyes as he looked up to nod his thanks whilst continuing his song inspired me and left an impression that lingered. Each of us have a choice; we can choose to give up and complain about hardship or we can be thankful for what we do have and use it wisely to bring about positive change for ourselves and others. That young man’s attitude, as he held hope and gratitude as his companions, refused to leave me long after I left Chinatown.
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