Fools will travel…
(…or why I am not a Lonely Planet Writer)
The ferry was late, and it was packed. That should have told me something.
According to LP and to local lore, buses leave directly from the tiny town of Kuala Perlis for Kuala Lumpur several times a day. I got to the bus station just in time to miss the 13:00 departure, cursing mildly at the 1.5h wait. From the outside, Kuala Perlis is little more than the ferry terminal, the bus station and a small strip of basic eateries and what LP describes as ‘grotty, dirt-cheap hostels’. In short, my kind of place—the kind I always seem to end up in.
“OK, next bus to Kuala Lumpur?” I said, resigning myself to the wait.
“Fuuul.”
“Next bus?”
“Fuuul.”
“Bus after that?”
“Fuuul.”
“Bus tonight??”
(ibid)
“Bus tomorrow?”
“Eh?”
“Besok!” (actually esok—and I mis-pronounced it).
She did not understand. I was starting to wonder whether the place was hexed—the station was almost completely deserted. Empty ghost buses left and rolled down the road at intervals.
“Bus to Alor Setar?” (also mis-pronounced): “Local bus?”
She shrugged helplessly, so I shouldered my backpack and walked up the sweltering, quiet street to look for a local bus stop. There wasn’t one. The sign to the state capital led me back past the bus station from where, according to LP, the buses to Kuala Lumpur, Alor Setar, Butterworth and bunch of other destinations all leave. All apparently ‘fuuul’.
Then it suddenly occured to me that today was a Sunday. The Sunday that Rebecca said many people were leaving so she could offer me a proper room if I wanted to stay on.
Many people—like the 163 on the ferry—all heading south where the weekend falls on a Saturday and Sunday. People who I thought had come to Lakawi either by car (providing parking spaces is the other big industry in Kuala Perlis) or had flown to the island. But no, they had all come by bus. And the station (and buses) were empty because they had arranged to be picked up straight from the ferry terminal.
Would there be more buses (with free seats) leaving from Alor Setar? Possibly, but I would have to take a taxi to get there (RM 40), and once there I would still not know. Alor Setar has a rough reputation—I might as well stay in one of the ‘dirt-cheap hostels’ that line the strip (some of which were, oddly, closed—or closed-down).
I walked up to another counter advertising VIP seats, hoping I might get lucky with the more expensive ticket, but not so. However, the man behind the counter spoke better English, so I reserved a seat on the 10:30 a.m. service (RM 33—see?) and walked back up to and along the strip, selecting the least charming of the hostels that were open: D’Jetty Motel; S.H. Agensi. They wanted 40 RM—ouch! That part of the equation had not worked out. No doubt I will share the room (next door to the dark and damp communal shower cubicle) with my scuttling friends. ‘Cleaning’ the room (while I waited outside) did not include picking up the used Q-tips from the floor or removing the grey gauze of spiderwebs from the ceiling. And I’ve taken a picture of the ‘washing facility’. There was no sink and floccules of shit floated in the barrel next to the toilet.
In addition, Kuala Perlis seemed dry [in fact there’s a Chinatown a few hundred yards down the road; with clean, air-conditioned rooms for RM 30]. Time to crack open the duty-free.
Tomorrow, as they say, is another day.
***
A day that I was pleased to leave town, even before it came to pay for my windowless oven of a room. Of course, I realised how stupid I had been to even consider staying here. This is not Lakawi—there are other rooms available and there would have been no harm in looking around even if I had to return. This isn’t Taiwan either—no loss of face and they don’t like foreigners here anyway.
“Eighteen,” the girl said.
Ah, they were charging me the going rate after all. When he said ‘forty’, perhaps the owner had referred to one of the large, clean rooms with windows. I handed her 20.
“Nooo….”
“That’s alright, keep it—I have no change.”
“Nooo…” she went away and got a note book. After some kerfuffle it became apparent that she wanted 40RM, even though she said eighteen. The first thing I need to buy in KL is a dictionary so I can conduct these kinds of discussions in Bahasa in future.
I handed her 50RM. What could I do? The fool in me had agreed to the price.
She stuffed the money into her pocket and went back to her work. She did not understand the concept of ‘change’ even when I drew the equation on the notebook; looking bored. Disinterested.
I bullied her to return the 50RM, shouting something about Polis, stormed to the shops and got the change. It was quite a fuss—and quite a lot more than I needed after another near-sleepless night in the heat and light shining through numerous holes and ridges in the plywood walls (especially the shower partition) which had been preceeded by a dinner of ‘Laksa Kulao Perlis’ that tasted marginally worse than dog food. Oh no, my first experience with mainland Malaysia was not a good one. But then it would be the same wherever I get stranded in some godforsaken outback terminal—nobody recommended Kuala Perlis to me.
All the sweeter then to be swept away while reclining in one of the Sri Maju Ekspres ‘Super VIP Seats’ (only 25 to the whole bus). Relaxing during the drive, I found that I even have some fond memories of Kuala Perlis: sitting in a pavillion near the market, watching the mud-skippers and crabs during low tide while waiting for the sun to set behind the islands. And finding Chinatown.
As we drove through Central Malaysia it rained so much that despite the excellent drainage of the highway, the bus was aqua-planing. I may have to re-think my Taman Negara intinerary.
Tags: SE Asia, Tag Index
Denni