Interlude
If this entry is written badly, blame the internet café downstairs in this shopping mall. The woman running it listens to badly recorded Malaysian pop at full volume on the computer opposite. The Borneo B&B will have internet access from tomorrow, so perhaps I can do better then.
As the KLIA Airport Express sped past the suburbs of Kuala Lumpur in the grey afternoon light, I was in a really shitty mood. It was just like being back in London, with the exception of the TV monitor glaring at eye-level. The opposite seat, underneath the screen, had been taken by a bloke who had weasled in just as I turned my back for a moment while rummaging in my rucksack. All my clothes were smelly again. I could smell myself and I was sure that everyone else could as well—the only backpacker in a train full of business travellers. The man sitting opposite shifted uneasily.
I wondered what had happened to my trip.
The flight was due to leave in five hours time and the check-in counter would not open for another three. I had booked the evening flight in case there were things to do or to see in Melaka or Kuala Lumpur. There weren’t.
Digging out Jack Keourac’s ‘On the Road’ from the bottom of the rucksack necessitated emptying the whole thing—smelly clothes and all—onto the floor of the carriage, then stuffing everything back in. But there was no way I’d last five hours without a book. Malaysia’s English Language newspapers are not conductive to entertainment.
The train sped past a panoramic skyline of Kuala Lumpur and I reached instinctively for the camera only to remember that there was a virus on my SD card. I’d have to reformat it, losing all the pictures in the process, and there was no point taking any more in the meantime. At least sorting it out would keep me occupied for a while.
I was in such a shitty mood that I could not believe I was going to Borneo. The whole trip already seemed to be in the past, despite the palm trees flitting by outside the windows. It felt as if I was on my way home.
Damn the smell of my sweaty clothes. KL International Airport has been ranked fifth best in the world—they ought to have showers.
They do not have showers. The jingle of the continuous loudspeaker announcements jangled my nerves. An escape to the downstairs food court proved futile. However, there I had the only positive experience of the day so far: Laksa Penang, kicking with chillies and lime, tart with fresh onion and pineapple perfectly balancing the fish. It was almost as good as in Thailand. Almost.
After that, things began to look up: the check-in counter appeared to be open. I walked down the length of the wide, cool departure hall and came to a sign: ‘All Air Asia departures within Indonesia proceed to row L’—all the way back down where I came from.
There was nobody there.
Eventually, a solitary guy at one of the long row of empty desks looked up: “Kuching? Wait a moment—Yes. This flight is delayed…”
“It what?”
“…until 21:05. Five minutes past nine. Check in at 19:05.”
Mind reeling with the announcement, underlined by the unending jingles from the loudspeakers, I trapsed back to the sign next to the Air Asia counter. I showed my print-out to the lady: “Is this flight delayed?”
She was immediately apologetic—technical problems. They never tell you what these are, but I barely cared if the plane was prone to fall from the sky, I had to get the hell out of that airport. I put on a concerned face: “But if we arrive late, I’ll have no place to stay…”
The little girl act still seems to work, or else the lady had been doing this all day. It turned out that the 17:40 flight—the one I wanted to book originally—was similarly delayed and now due to leave at 19:35, five minutes before my original departure time. She booked me on it.
That flight turned out to be delayed further, until 20:30. I got off lightly, considering that the 15:10 flight only left at a quarter to eight—presumably the planned 19:40 flight was cancelled altogether.
Did I say that I hate flying? I could not help thinking that I should be lying on a beach somewhere. At least nobody smelled my sweaty clothes, because the person next to me had flatulence.
And then the nightmare was over. I was back on my trip.
With the last bus long gone, I pointed the taxi straight at the ‘Borneo B&B’ instead of checking out the sparse options listed in the guide book. For this I have Leif ‘God of Thunder’—our very own Lonely Planet writer—to thank. Not only is the BBB affordable and impeccably clean, it is Iban-run and the welcome was more than friendly. When I sneaked back upstairs after a late, late dinner (it was by now nearly one in the morning) the young co-owner waved me over to the table on the balcony where he sat with his brother and one of the guests. I the middle stood four empty bottles of Copial Tuak, the local rice wine, and he went and added four more.
The Iban give the term ‘social drinking’ its propper meaning. There was a single glass on the table, according to custom. Jimmy filled it to the brim and set it in front of each of us in turn. Everybody gets drunk at the same rate. Feeble cop-outs such as “I have a plane to catch in the morning” are ignored.
More bottles were added. By the time we conceded that we could not finish the last bottle, it was three in the morning.
I wonder if Michael ever caught that plane.
Tags: SE Asia, Tag Index
Denni