I wuz robbed

My last day in KL and I’m cruising around getting myself sorted, slowly packing the bag in between watching episodes of Californication and wishing the hands on the clock would speed up a tad so I could just get on that jet plane and find myself home again. Then I make a discovery.

I’m sorting out my carry on. I travel normally with two wallets. One is for home, one is for away. As soon as I’m on my way I put away the home wallet, and take out my away wallet. My away wallet has whatever currency I have, an ATM card, and a credit card. That’ll do. The home wallet has the spares – my driver’s licence, and a few spare credit cards, and cash. Always cash. That’s my going home money, $100 at a minimum, normally closer to $200 to cover the taxi on my way back, maybe some duty-free, and incidental.

Anyway, as I said, I’m sorting out my carry on. Sometime in the next few hours, I’ll switch wallets again is the theory, in home mode. So I fish out the home wallet, untouched all my time here but once to pick out a different credit card. I open it up and it’s empty. Or more accurately, fucking empty.

I stare at it. If it was a cartoon or something you’d see me theatrically blinking my eyes and giving them a good rub. I’m sure I peer into it, as I do again repeatedly in the next 30 minutes. I poke around in all the little compartments, just in case. Then, just for the hell of it, just in case David Copperfield or some other wizard has performed his magic, I check my away wallet to see if my good old, dinky-di, polymer Australian dollars have appeared there. No.

So I check my home wallet again, just in case, then my passport wallet, my pockets, then back to my home wallet again. No every time. I’ve been fucking robbed.

I know I’ve been robbed because I made a point of having the money, more now than ever. And because I fucking saw them nestling there cosily when I went to my wallet 10 days or so again. It was a reassuring sight.

Not so now. Very un-reassuring. To put it mildly. My mind raced. When? Who? I was fucking angry. Then I was bereft. Then I was angry again. How the fuck does this happen? And so I got depressed by it. How does the world get this way? And come on, gimme a break.

I sound like I’m making light of it, but believe me, I was far from being light-hearted. There was an immense sense of disbelief. As if it was unreal, as if something like this doesn’t really happen in real life. See, the money wasn’t just stolen but sneaked. Someone went to my wallet, plucked out those lovely golden notes, and hoped I wouldn’t notice.

Some part of me had shrivelled up. I really felt on some downward spiral. All the while I’m trying to figure it out who. Can’t be many, and that makes it worse.

C’est le vie I guess. Gone, can’t get it back, just need to make some more. Sad world but.

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