From a platform, quietly.

A guttural hiss starts to appease. Fetid industrial fumes linger. I am at the monorail station, one of many, elevated ten metres above ground zero and its traffic's interminable purr. I can see the boxy purple rear of the monorail, the monorail I have missed, as it follows the curved concrete destiny of its track onwards, away. Its passengers peer back at me all lachrymose, a sort of implicit plea for amnesty from the squeeze, for a moment of silence in a city that refuses to stop. It is peak period at 5pm, and I can only look away. I do.

Alone in the station, sweating thus stinking. I fish the local rag from my bag, The New Strait Times, take a seat on the hard warm floor. Arresting bold font, front page, states: "Dengue Fever Escalates." The article warns people visiting to Penang to (a) cancel and go elsewhere, or (b) be especially vigilant; 68 have died in recent months.

Tomorrow, 7.30am, our plane leaves for Penang.

A gaggle of gorgeous locals sashay up the steps, past me. Their hips are supple, postures flawless, eyes catty and captivating. They do not afford me a glance. Two businessmen and now the human deluge has started. A few schoolkids, shirts spilling out back, voices boisterous and unchecked. An emaciated Indian, eyes rolling and precariously shuffling in his torn and tattered rags, probably moribund. An older woman, hair a shimmery grey, with lines of wisdom blotting her forehead and an umbrella overhead, despite the roofing. Three hipsters now, adorned with requisite shades and tats and a bouncy sort of strut. They're generous enough to afford a glance. Nay, it's a scowl.

Claustrophobia strikes; everything caving in. Not four minutes since last shuttle, but already the space's simple comfort gone. The heat is abdominable. The electronic schedule is a defunct black screen. The bins spill with junk, ants crawling toward so slowly I videotape them. Down the length of the station and beyond, the sun melds with the clouds and mountains, a gradual descent into Kuala Lumpur darkness.

That same guttural hiss is born in the distance. The horde swarms forward, desperate for a spot. The monorail, this one emblazoned with a commanding green text beckoning us to Buy buy buy Nokia!!! pulls up with a forlorn sigh. It is full but will be fuller. People push, prod, pounce on the smallest gateway that avails itself. The gangly Indian is swept inside like a twig in a stream. The old lady's umbrella is packed away. The schoolkids I can hear but not see. And the attendant shrills his whistle from the vanguard, looks around the now-empty station, eventually locks sight on me. Again the whistle, churlishly, threateningly, an aggressive sweep of his arm designed to lure me aboard. But I can only shake my head. I do.

I figure that, hey, I'll just wait for the next one. Perhaps even the one after that.