We woke before the alarm at 6:40. It was a warm Thursday morning and we were going to the Batu Caves.

After a shower and internet, we exited our hostel and walked around the corner to a bus terminal. We are staying in China Town on Jalan Sultan in a hostel called the Red Dragon. It is an old theatre. It has been converted into tiered rooms of minimal amenities. It is inexpensive, comfortable and close to all of central Kuala Lumpur.

By 8:15, we found ourselves on a local bus driving towards the caves, 13 kilometers north at the whopping cost of 2 ringgit each. By 8:40, we had passed the suburbs and were dropped on the curb outside the entrance of the temple. The friendly bus driver made sure to point out the spot for us to stand to catch the bus back into town – very nice of him indeed.

Batu Caves are set of natural mountain caverns with various Hindi temples interspersed within. A giant, gilded statue of Mughura [sic] stands guard at the base of the 272 steps that ascend to the cave’s entrance.

After a roti telur and teh, we start the ascent. A lot of sweat later and we are at the top. An enormous cavern opens before us. Pigeons flap to and fro as Hindu chants and bells echo through the darkness. Rays of white light sever the air towards the ground providing enough natural light to see. At the opposite end of the cavern another, smaller set of steps rise to a roofless area.

We walked across the cavern, through the incense, bells and chants to the back of the cave. 20 grey monkeys are meandering around, climbing the rock walls and generally milling. Their cackles add to the mythical fervor imbued by the natural dwelling and the Hindi domiciles.

After an hour around the caves, we caught the number 11 bus back into town. 30 minutes later, we were in China Town again. We proceeded to an Indian travel agent and reserved our flight to Chennai then proceeded to get drink.

We had walked by what looked to be a worker’s cantina around the corner from Jalan Petaling. We walked in at 11:30 and ordered a Tiger. Whilst chatting about the caves and supping our beer we noticed two elderly Chinese men, two Indians and a Malaysian—all at separate tables (as far away as you could be from each other at a bar with 5 tables)—drinking a small bottle of alcohol. The bottle was as large as a small bottle of cough syrup, filled with ruddy liquid and covered in Chinese writing. A melancholy middle-aged Chinese man was serving it with a recycled whiskey bottle of cold water, the mixer. We ordered one.

I replicated the serving technique I noticed the other patrons using when I poured. We toasted, smelled and imbibed. The first sip went straight to the head. It was strong. It took about two hours to finish the small bottle between us. During this time, we struck up a conversation with two aged Chinese men. He informed us that what we were drinking was “firewater”. We had no grounds to argue that.

The afternoon came and we drank more firewater. Our new friends enlightened us on the ways and wants of their world. They warned us of the dark criminals and exhibited the usual paranoia found in men their age. We drank another, higher-end bottle of firewater and ate roast pork and duck. By two, we were pleasantly inebriated and bode our new acquaintances farewell.

Upon stumbling out of the cantina, we found a soup kitchen and ordered some of the best prawn mee soup we have had. The broth was a delightful mix of fish, oyster sauce and fresh herbs. The soup consisted of rice noodles, spring onion, bean sprouts, prawns and a hard boiled egg. Little pieces of diced green chili floated in between giving the whole affair an extra abundance.

I needed to use a tanda (toilet), so I walked around the back of the building and found a row of backdoors with old men and women sitting at the entrances reading papers and smoking cigarettes. Behind them were staircases leading up to red lights. I paid 1 ringgit to use one of their toilets then returned to my wife.

Next, we found ourselves an outdoor café and drank a large cup of Sumatran kopi tarik (coffee with sweetened condensed milk). We sat in the multihued tiled room. Huge mirrors hung above the white-grey marble tables and old wooden chairs. The atmosphere was extremely Oriental and timeless. Old women ate soup and duck and supped on tea as we chatted away, the only occidentals in the room.

At this point, I decided it was time for a shave. Having spotted a barber across the street, I thought: never a better time than the present to have a stranger put a switch blade to my throat.

30 minutes, a shave and a trim later I was back on the street 15 ringgit poorer, but more comfortable without the thick fur clinging to my face. Beer was in order next...