I’m killing a bit of time in the Kuala Lumpur train station, waiting for the ticket office to open so I can pay for my seat to Ipoh. There’s a TV in the corner running political coverage, and the Malaysian assembly is an endless cavalcade of exciting headgear. No doubt they indicate rank or ethnicity or religion or something, but to my untrained eye it just looks like a silly-hat parade. A few folks have skull caps, the president has a pointy batik pope-style crown, a few guys have these angular headbands that (on the black and white TV) look straight off of a Buck Rogers episode.
I just took an overnight sleeper from Singapore. The ride was very rattly — clearly they were adding cars to the train in each little whistle-stop in Melaka because I kept waking up to these tremendous bump-and-clangs. I’m looking forward to the novelty of sleeping in a full-sized, stationary bed this evening.
I’m always amused at the process of leaving Singapore via rail. For some reason when Singapore broke away from Malaysia in the 1960’s, the property owned by KTM (the rail company) remained part of Malaysia. So there’s a funny embassy-like finger of Malaysian sovereignty that extends across the causeway and down almost to the far end of the Singapore island, ending in the Tanjong Pagar station. This spit is mostly razor-wired and generally cut off from Singapore proper, neglected by both governments such that it’s ill maintained and prone to acquiring squatter camps.
There have been frequent disputes and negotiations between the two governments about how to untangle this problem. One consequence of this turf war is that passengers go through Malaysian immigration before boarding the train (which, after all, runs on rails that are entirely built on Malaysian soil) but don’t pass through Singaporean emigration until just before crossing the causeway. So you enter this strange run-down train station and ride along this ratty strip of land for half an hour (during which time passengers are, officially, within both countries at once), then climb off the train and into a shiny efficient Singapore-style customs facility, a final reminder of the convenience that we’ve forsaken.
The second consequence of bitterness about the land dispute is that KTM regards Singapore dollars (US$.71) and Malaysian ringgit (US$.29) as equivalent. So, because I booked a ticket in Singapore, I had to pay SGD40 (US$28) for the one-way ticket, whereas if I’d bought a return ticket in Kuala Lumpur it would’ve only cost MYR80 (US$23) for the round trip. In fact, I could’ve simply called the booking office in KL, bought a round-trip ticket, and failed to travel the south-bound portion of the journey thus saving $5 and ensuring that an empty berth travel south. Everyone knows about this — in fact, I’ve even had a KTM agent in Singapore direct me to a pay-phone in order to call the KL office and save myself a few bucks. Yet, the system remains.
Third consequence of the territorial dispute is that the Tanjong Pagar train station (which can be entered without passing through immigration) has gained a reputation as a convenient place for Singaporeans to eat authentic Malaysian food. When I arrived last night there were a few dozen passengers milling about, and about a hundred non-traveling Singaporeans sitting around tables on the (at the moment, unused) arrivals platform eating satay.
I’m a bit panicked about the prospect of leaving the roti prata zone, so I had a little bit of satay and a whole lot of prata. So far on this trip, train station prata is the best prata — it came with dahl in addition to the normal curry.