Got up at ten, packed, checked out, and walked into town.
Our first port of call was the British High Commission. Unfortunately this was a complete waste of time because the woman at the enquiries desk didn't have a clue whether or not Malaysian Immigration would object to an Israeli border stamp.
We then walked up the street to the American Express to obtain their Kuala Lumpur address for the second time (some bastard nicked our map, on which we had written). I asked the bright, young Neanderthal sitting behind the desk what the American Express address in Kuala Lumpur was. He responded, helpfully, with a blank look and a "Duuuh". Fortunately the directory was in view, so I abandoned oral language as a means of communication and pointed. He understood.
The next step was to get ourselves a delicious mango juice. Fantastic. The pie and chips at John & Joe's that followed could not be described as such.
With no money to speak of, and nothing else to do, the only thing left to do was go to the airport, albeit ten hours before our flight.
Some stupid women decided it would be a good idea to bring a Z-Bed onto the crowded bus. After a while the conductor got pissed off with it falling over and getting in people's way, so he kicked them off the bus, which was quite amusing.
We arrived at the airport with about ten hours to kill, so we were relieved to discover that we could lounge around comfortably on plastic stools provided in the "Temporary Snack Bar".
Whilst walking around the arrivals area, we were pestered by a number of taxi-drivers who specialise in offering taxi rides to people who don't want them. I decided to test the African mentality to its extreme: "Yes please. We want to go to Bombay." The driver immediately stood up, donned his cap, and prepared his car-keys for action. "Yes. No problem! I'll take you, sir!"
"But it's thousands of miles away."
"Come on! Let's go, sir!"
"But your car cannot go over the sea, can it?"
"No problem! We can go now."
At this point I gave up and took cover in a bookshop.
After a few hours of waiting for the restaurant to open, we took the five flights to it. (Naturally, the lift wasn't working.) The meal was good value. A couple of beers each, a decent meal, and coffees came to 380 shillings.
We still had some time left before our check-in, so we sat in the restaurant's reception area and read.
The airport procedures were an absolute shambles. After surrendering our hold baggage, we were all directed to a kiosk where we were to purchase a $US20 departure stamp apiece. A very nasty shock—I had to part with $40 cash, as Olly's travellers cheques were not accepted. The woman at the desk didn't turn up for several minutes and, when she did, it was with only two stamps. It must have been a real surprise to her when she ran out after serving only two people. Several years later she returned with a fresh batch of stamps.
The next stage in the procedure was to walk to the customs area to identify our baggage. Of course, there were no directions to customs, but why bother when there are so many helpful Africans around? A vague hand-signal and a primaeval grunt sent us directly there.
At passport control Olly asked one of the helpful officials if we were to stand in one queue only (there were two other shorter ones). As soon as he had given his answer in the affirmative and accompanied it with a lobotomy-induced stare, we knew we had wasted our time. "Are we travelling to Bombay on elephant-back?" would have got the same response.
At the hand-luggage X-ray machine we were very careful not to give the policeman a tempting yes/no question. We requested that my green bag be searched manually as it contained camera film. He confidently explained that the equipment would not damage films so that was OK.
When we got on the 'plane, the first thing of interest was the physical condition of the stewardess. Most satisfactory: She was utterly gorgeous.
Leaving Nairobi.
Our first port of call was the British High Commission. Unfortunately this was a complete waste of time because the woman at the enquiries desk didn't have a clue whether or not Malaysian Immigration would object to an Israeli border stamp.
We then walked up the street to the American Express to obtain their Kuala Lumpur address for the second time (some bastard nicked our map, on which we had written). I asked the bright, young Neanderthal sitting behind the desk what the American Express address in Kuala Lumpur was. He responded, helpfully, with a blank look and a "Duuuh". Fortunately the directory was in view, so I abandoned oral language as a means of communication and pointed. He understood.
The next step was to get ourselves a delicious mango juice. Fantastic. The pie and chips at John & Joe's that followed could not be described as such.
With no money to speak of, and nothing else to do, the only thing left to do was go to the airport, albeit ten hours before our flight.
Some stupid women decided it would be a good idea to bring a Z-Bed onto the crowded bus. After a while the conductor got pissed off with it falling over and getting in people's way, so he kicked them off the bus, which was quite amusing.
We arrived at the airport with about ten hours to kill, so we were relieved to discover that we could lounge around comfortably on plastic stools provided in the "Temporary Snack Bar".
Whilst walking around the arrivals area, we were pestered by a number of taxi-drivers who specialise in offering taxi rides to people who don't want them. I decided to test the African mentality to its extreme: "Yes please. We want to go to Bombay." The driver immediately stood up, donned his cap, and prepared his car-keys for action. "Yes. No problem! I'll take you, sir!"
"But it's thousands of miles away."
"Come on! Let's go, sir!"
"But your car cannot go over the sea, can it?"
"No problem! We can go now."
At this point I gave up and took cover in a bookshop.
After a few hours of waiting for the restaurant to open, we took the five flights to it. (Naturally, the lift wasn't working.) The meal was good value. A couple of beers each, a decent meal, and coffees came to 380 shillings.
We still had some time left before our check-in, so we sat in the restaurant's reception area and read.
The airport procedures were an absolute shambles. After surrendering our hold baggage, we were all directed to a kiosk where we were to purchase a $US20 departure stamp apiece. A very nasty shock—I had to part with $40 cash, as Olly's travellers cheques were not accepted. The woman at the desk didn't turn up for several minutes and, when she did, it was with only two stamps. It must have been a real surprise to her when she ran out after serving only two people. Several years later she returned with a fresh batch of stamps.
The next stage in the procedure was to walk to the customs area to identify our baggage. Of course, there were no directions to customs, but why bother when there are so many helpful Africans around? A vague hand-signal and a primaeval grunt sent us directly there.
At passport control Olly asked one of the helpful officials if we were to stand in one queue only (there were two other shorter ones). As soon as he had given his answer in the affirmative and accompanied it with a lobotomy-induced stare, we knew we had wasted our time. "Are we travelling to Bombay on elephant-back?" would have got the same response.
At the hand-luggage X-ray machine we were very careful not to give the policeman a tempting yes/no question. We requested that my green bag be searched manually as it contained camera film. He confidently explained that the equipment would not damage films so that was OK.
When we got on the 'plane, the first thing of interest was the physical condition of the stewardess. Most satisfactory: She was utterly gorgeous.
Leaving Nairobi.
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