Nice ‘Hood!
Chinatown, around the corner from Puduraya Bus Station
This street is blissfully quiet at night.
I discovered this place by following LP directions across the road from Puduraya Bus Station and then walking up a set of stairs to look for something a little more peaceful.
During the day, the little street turns into a popular short-cut and the drone of the scooters duely awoke me at 7:30 this morning, despite the earplugs. This isn’t a bad thing. It means that I can get more done during the day. Early to bed and all that.
In a country where a small bottle of beer costs 2$ US, it isn’t a bad thing at all.
What was left of the early-morning peace was shattered by an alceration from downstairs.
Just as I deposited my laundry and finished paying for the room at reception, an angry black guy appeared in the doorway, shouting something about his phone and the police.
“They stole your phone?”
Not only that. They also took his documents—everything that he kept in a little bag in his room. He insisted that the door always be kept locked, but apparently one of the other men had left it open.
I did not quite follow this: he said his room mate had left earlier, so apparently it wasn’t him. But, he said, he had locked his door and when he returned it was unlocked and his things had gone. And it was the second time this had happened to him. He turned and shot an accusing glare at the men sitting in the reception area—the men who run the hostel. When he turned around again, one of them surreptitiously tapped his finger on his forehead, looking at me.
Of course it is possible that the black guy is crazy or lost his bag or something, but I was not so sure. I resolved to stay out of it—beyond expressing my sympathies to a fellow traveller. So I shrugged, mumbled: “Hope it’s resolved soon,” while looking from the reception to the guy and then pushed past them.
And that, I thought, was that.
A little further down the street, I spotted a plastic-coated letter in the rubbish. It looked important. An insurance certicficate?I bent closer: it was in English. I picked it up. UN Commission for Refugees, applicant details. A badly scanned black-and-white photo, looking a bit like that guy. I couldn’t be sure—to be wrong would be terribly embarrassing.
I took the letter back to the hostel and—after the briefest hesitation, making sure that the black guy was watching—handed it to the receptionist. He intercepted it
“Wait! That is my document! Where did you get this?”
He had been right.
With a glance around the reception area, I said: “In the rubbish outside. Come with me.”
The guy, let’s call him Michael, found another few bits of paper but of course his other things were missing. He seemed most upset by the loss of his mobile phone. He grabbed the shreds of paper and set off down the street, muttering darkly. I passed him shortly afterwards as he was making a call from a phone box. He was angry—but he was not crazy.
The guys in that hostel are dodgy. And racist, judging from the looks they had given Michael.
I have never been so glad that I have taken a padlock along. Following the example of others on my floor, I had bolted the door, although I thought that was excessive paranoia. I was wrong.
Nice ‘Hood.
Tags: SE Asia, Tag Index
Denni