New companies scrambled for tax breaks. Getting MSC status meant that you had access to billions of ringgit of government funds; you could start a music studio, a production house, a film company, a radio station, a telecommunications network, a TV station. Punters were raking it in, there was money to be made, there were infinite possibilities. If it had to do with technology, anything was possible. The braver and bolder you were, the better. New universities sprouted on vast, tree-less campuses. There were degrees in gaming, special effects, morphing, animation, CGI. Overseas expertise was lured in to teach. There was talk of Hollywood sound stages. There was talk of George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, the Weinstein brothers. We were leap-frogging into the future.

Putrajaya was built around an artificial lake, gargantuan buildings lined wide boulevards. Tens of thousands of civil servants and their multiple children poured into new apartment blocks. Government offices were divided into “presints” of brazen high-rises. The Ministry of this and that. At 5.15pm sharp, there would be a flood of veiled, chattering women and sullen-looking men going home in brand new Protons and Peroduas, settling after dinner in front of Astro, watching CNN or HBO. It was fabricated, glittering, garish. The Prime Minister’s office faced a boulevard, with gilded Mughal-inspired domes. We wanted to look classy, we wanted to create new architecture, each building had a different design. It ended up looking schizophrenic. Two hippos were shipped in from Africa for the brand new wetlands, along with other animals. There were flamingos, herons, otters, exotic ducks. There were artificial lakes for boats, wakeboarding. There were magnificent steel bridges, curly lamp posts studded the pavements every ten metres, there were parks, schools, hospitals. There were parts that looked sleek, others looked bleak. There were highways that curved over flowers and concrete, there was a souq, there was a mosque of pink Italian marble. It was the new capital.

Fairman had decided to throw a New Year’s Eve party at his parents’ house, a 70s style bungalow at the foot of Kenny Hills. It had verandas designed for languid afternoons, white walls, high ceilings, antique fans and old “Made in England” bathroom fixtures. Almost a hundred people had been invited, and cars wound gracefully all the way down the bottom of the hill. Tall meranti trees towered at the back, like guardians of a suburban forest. A symphony of cicadas conspired against the four-piece jazz quartet. Fairman’s parents stood at the entrance, greeting the guests as they arrived. It was a fairly mixed crowd, with a smattering of artists and activist types, high society folk who graced the pages on the Malaysian Tatler, and dozens of screaming children running away from long-suffering maids.