Traveling as a child in the early 90s, squished between my parents as a passenger on a rusty motorcycle, the sight of the lush painted mural of the Pudu Jail wall was one of the most memorable things that passed my view.

I thought it was wonderfully endless, an examination of patience, a green fantasy world wrapping a sad core, a bittersweet gift from an inmate. The person who painted it served his sentence by visualising, in his mind, a much better place: with sufficient oxygen, soft beds of moss, the sound of tropical birds, filtered sunlight, something more natural than a concrete box.

I hope he inspired many of his friends there.

Driving past earlier in a car, no longer dangerously balanced in the middle of the motorcycle, I caught glimpses of the painted landscape again, paint peeling, many people photographing, bulldozers ready, reporters working late into the night.

(Note: the two photographs of the Pudu Jail were taken in September 2005)


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