At various times in this blog I have and will mention meeting people at a hostel or doing activities with a group of fellow travelers. I have never been shy about saying that this is my favorite part of traveling. Teaming up to save on transportation and solve the issues of navigating a foreign country that speaks a different language is fun and practical. But honestly one of the absolute highlights of traveling is sitting around in a hostel, drinking beer, and talking.

If this sounds exactly like going out to the bar with your friends on Saturday night, it is except for one difference that makes the experience infinitely better, no one knows each other. This means absolutely no discussing of how much your boss sucks, gossiping about who’s marriage is a sham, complaining about all the construction on the highway. This lack of prior familiarity leads most often to exchanges of knowledge and ideas between people from different countries and different backgrounds. It leads to discussing how different systems work in different countries. It leads to discussions of former travels and adventures. It never leads to shit talking people who are not present, because you don’t any of the same people. You have no idea how refreshing that is.

We were dropped off in Melaka, called Malacca in English, in the middle of the day on a Thursday. From there we navigated our way to the hostel with a map in our guidebook. That’s right,a good old fashioned paper map. It was not hard. Things were not more difficult in the our parents generation, they were just less convenient. We checked into our twenty person dorm and were given a tour by Aiden from the UK. The dorms were rectangle pods cut into the wall with their own curtains for total privacy. The pinnacle of comfort. We spent the evening drinking beer and talking about nothing and everything. The next two days we visited a 600 year old stone church and fort, a museum inside of a replica Portuguese trading ship, and generally marveled at the unique architecture of a city influenced by Malaysian, Portuguese, Dutch, British and Chinese cultures. We also ate at a Hard Rock Cafe because it seemed like dumb fun, and we were wanted air conditioning, but mostly because after over two weeks of traveling we wanted something familiar and without rice. The food was expensive and bad, in other words perfect.

On our last evening in Melaka we visited the Jonker Street night market. Jonker Street is one of the main thoroughfares in Melaka and every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday the entire street shuts down and fills with stalls and hawkers selling local food, traditional cures, hand made crafts, and touristy souvenirs. The smells alone make the market worth a visit, we had corn, curly fries made before eyes, chicken saytay (chicken barbecued in peanut sauce), and a mango-passion fruit-orange juice that supposedly helps with weight loss. When we returned to the hostel we went to the rooftop gathering area for another night of drinking and talking about nothing and everything.

The next day found us heading to Kuala Lumpur with two new friends in tow, Larry and Luuk. We met the night before and decided since we were all heading to the same place we might as well split a Grab to the bus station. This is how eternal friendships are made while backpacking. We arrived at Kuala Lumpur TBS (which does not stand for The Bus Station, unfortunately) and said goodbye to Luuk who is heading on to the Cameron Highlands. We try unsuccessfully three times to get a grab to our hostel and finally decide to take the train. When we arrive at our stop the weather has changed from bright and sunny to something more akin to being trapped beneath a waterfall. We don our best rain gear and trudge the half mile to the hostel. We fall inside like so many wet cats, angry and confused, and wait to check in behind none other than a completely dry Luuk, who couldn’t get a train till the next day but had no problem getting a grab.

With what’s left of the day we head out into the city in search of food and adventure or at least beer. We have better western food at a nonchalant bar in KL’s Chinatown, and then head into the market where Larry fails to fully understand the intricacies haggling or how a knockoff can look just like a name brand item. She buys the headphones, and we look for a place to drink.

KL, as everyone seems to call Kuala Lumpur, is different than I expected in exclusively positive ways. Where I was imagining another Manila with an Islamic twist, what I found was Singapore but without the signs of life scrubbed clean. There was every type of food you might want, and all of it good. A fancy bar district where Megan and Larry got to drink free and Luuk and I got to pay 32 ringgit for a beer (that’s a lot). Some buskers playing all the hits from US and Malaysia, and playing them well. People everywhere, but not going from place to place as in Singapore, but existing. It was no dirtier, dingier, or unsafe than an average Midwestern US city, but so much more alive and happy. We drink late into the night enjoying the city and talking with Luuk and Larry, comparing healthcare systems of the US, Netherlands, and Australia and why no one from the US travels and why everyone from the Netherlands seemed to be traveling in Malaysia at that moment. We went to bed anticipating what more KL had in store. So it goes without saying that we were struck by illness.

Sickness is inevitable on a long trip. Especially when you travel like we do. You move around a lot, eat what’s available, drink too much alcohol, and sleep in dorms with six to 20 other roommates all passing around what ails them. Sickness and injury are quick to strike, slow to heal, and can seem ever present. Were you to ask everyone at any given hostel what was ailing them at the moment each person would have an answer, excepting perhaps those who had just arrived. No matter how hard you try, the specter of travel illness comes for you.

It came for Megan first in the form a stomach bug that left her basically bed bound for two whole days. Luuk stopped by to say farewell before heading for the Highlands and Larry, a nurse in her not traveling life, provided us with a plethora of medication and good advice. She would also depart the next day. In the meantime I read and updated this blog for you people and did my best to assure Megan that she wasn’t ruining anything, knowing full well it would be me next keeping us hostel bound. Our one attempted foray into the world ended in disappointment do to the museum being closed for the ending of Ramadan. We ate McDonald’s in defeat, as I have always done when travel has defeated me, and waited to be healed enough to get sick again.

On our last day we managed to make it out to the Batu Caves. A giant Hindu temple complex inside a massive cave dedicated to the God Murugan, the caves are one of the most impressive sights in Malaysia. The 142 foot statue of Murugan guards the 272 steps up to main cave. Along the way you will see monkeys, and if you bring food you will feed monkeys, whether you want to our not. We climbed the steps fully aware of the gathering dark clouds outside but determined to see the caves on our last day. Sure enough the rain began shortly before we began heading to the exit, pissing down in the way rain in KL likes to piss down. While we waited out the rain we discovered that Megan, unbeknownst to her, was apparently a celebrity, as approximately 25 teenagers aggressively requested to take their pictures with her. Why she experienced this sudden outburst of fame is unclear as none of the teens seemed to speak enough English to explain and we were to afraid to ruin the moment for them. Eventually both the rain and teenagers subsided, and we left the caves.

We wandered about the city some more, seeing the outside of the National mosque, an old train station, and various official and unofficial instances of art. Finally we returned to the hostel, packed our bags and prepared to leave the city we barely knew, but which had awed us so. Next stop Taman Negara, the world’s oldest rainforest.