Broke in Kuala Lumpur (Malaysia)

What do you do when you land in Kuala Lumpur in the middle of the night, dead tired and completely broke? That’s not a rhetorical question. I know exactly what you do — because I’ve done it. And let me tell you, it’s not pretty.

Photo: Frank Hansen

Bali, Deadlines, and a Disappearing Debit Card

The plan was simple: fly from Indonesia to India with a quick three-day layover in Malaysia's bustling capital. But plans, like umbrellas in a monsoon, tend to fail when you need them most.

I was running late in Bali. Long queues, stressed faces. When I finally reached the counter, a cheerful airport employee asked, “Have you paid the airport tax?”

“The what now?” I blinked. I'd spent my last rupiah on a questionable sandwich.
“There’s an ATM over there,” she said, pointing toward what looked like a queue long enough to test the patience of the Dalai Lama.

Long story short, I made the flight — but somewhere in the rush, my bank card did not. I’d left it in the ATM. Which I discovered around 3:12 a.m., standing bleary-eyed in the arrival hall of Kuala Lumpur International Airport.

No Money, No Water, No Hope

You haven’t truly understood human vulnerability until you realize you can’t even buy water. Not a sip. Not a drop. I was tired, thirsty, hungry, broke, and stranded. Malaysia in 2009 wasn’t exactly bursting with digital conveniences — this was the era of prepaid SIM cards, paper boarding passes, and calling Visa on a landline if you lost your card.

The hotel was booked, at least. That was something. But how to get there?

Enter: The Chest-Haired Pirate Taxi Driver

There was a glint of danger in the air. And gold — around the neck of a burly man in an open shirt, who offered me a “ride to the city, very cheap.” Yes, I know. It was a terrible idea.

But I was desperate, and sometimes desperation sounds an awful lot like, “Sure, let’s get in this unregistered car with a man who looks like he moonlights as a Bond villain.”

Once at the hotel, I executed a bold move. I retrieved my luggage, smiled apologetically, and began patting my pockets. “Oh no,” I gasped. “I must’ve lost my wallet.”
“Check your bag,” he growled.
I did, theatrically. No dice. “Maybe… a box of cigars?” I offered, like a Victorian nobleman bartering with pirates.

He scoffed, took a phone call, and told me ominously: “I’ll be back.”

Salvation in a Suit

Enter Rozkar, a sharply dressed Indonesian businessman in rimless glasses who’d been reading his newspaper in the hotel lobby.

He had seen everything. And heard the phone call.
“That guy,” he said calmly, “he’s with the mafia. You need to be careful.”

He handed me his phone. “Call your bank.” I did. Several times. The rest of the day I was in my room, waiting for the bank to call back and praying the pirates wouldn’t come knocking.

Caption: I emptied my bag, looking for items I could trade and what I could eat. Just tobacco and a tourist map. I tried to give some cigars to Rozkar. He said no, I should enjoy them myself. Instead he wrote his room number on them if I needed help. Photo: Frank Hansen

They Came Knocking

Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Do you have the money?” the voice snarled through the door.
“I’m calling the police,” I yelled, bluffing wildly.
He left — for now — but not before promising that next time, things would be different. That night, I sipped tiny bottles of Underberg from duty-free, delirious with hunger and tension. Breakfast could not come fast enough.

Breakfast Justice

Rozkar was already there, sipping coffee like nothing had happened. I felt bad — the phone call to Visa must’ve cost a fortune.

“Don’t worry,” he smiled. “My company pays for it.”

Then, in walked Mr. Pirate Taxi, fuming like a volcano. Staff tried to stop him, but he pushed through. Rozkar, without even standing up, turned slightly and blocked him with a single, calm hand.
“You should be ashamed,” he said. “Extorting people in crisis?”
He slapped some cash on the table. “Take your money. Don’t come back.”

The man vanished in a cloud of fumes and fury. Rozkar dipped a sugar cube in his coffee like it was any ordinary Tuesday. It felt like that scene in Karate Kid where Mr. Miyagi defended Daniel LaRusso against the bad guys.

“You don’t have to think about him anymore,” he said.
Then he reached into his chest pocket and handed me $200. “Enjoy your stay in Kuala Lumpur.”

Caption: After I got the money, I went to see the city and to enjoy the last day. Like a message from the universe, this was written on a wall I passed. Photo Frank Hansen

Caption: I visited the Twin Towers in Kuala Lumpur with a beautiful park area outside. Photo: Frank Hansen

Lessons in Kindness

Western Union came through. I gave Rozkar his money back and some cigars. A new card awaited me in India. But the memory of those chaotic days has never left me. To be in a big city without money is fatal. You can´t even drink water.

Rozkar wasn’t just a businessman. He was a lifeline. A quiet hero. Even now, sixteen years later, I still think of him.
He taught me something deeper than travel hacks and emergency plans: the unmeasurable value of kindness — and how being there for someone, just once, can change everything.