The municipal bus pulled into the inter-city bus terminal. The morning was grey and sullen; and perhaps it was just as well, for that made it easier to pretend the plumes of nauseating smoke were part of the innocuous foggy landscape. To say I found the place unpleasant in even the absence of this olfactory assault would be putting it mildly. The cumulative frustration of my previous experiences in the noise and filth of this disorganised jumble sagged in the pits of my heart. I observed a curved tyre mark on the light tarmac of the berth into which the bus moved; how it looked like a sneer! The rancid air of the terminal compound had so ingrained itself into my memory that I felt those familiar bouts of irritation well before I was due to step into it. As the double-doors swung open, I braced myself for a sensory onslaught.
Ticket-touts lined the narrow walkway leading from the berth to the main terminal building. This shabbily-dressed guard-of-honour produced an unintelligible cacophony of repeated place-names, and furiously waved pink and yellow slips of paper in the agitated faces of the travellers whose passageway they were clogging up. I eyed one of these touts with particular distaste as I approached the area where he was stood. Perhaps it was the way he energetically thrusted his wad of tickets at the travellers who passed him by, perhaps it was his penchant for making direct eye contact with anyone who afforded him any more than a cursory first glance, or perhaps it was the audibility of his voice above the general din of his colleagues, that drew attention to him. Perhaps, also, it was how he alone seemed to be perspiring profusely in clothes made scruffier by his exertions. I was immensely relieved that someone ahead of me took his bait, for it meant he had to busy himself issuing a ticket during the split-second it took me to dart away from him and his colleagues.
I heaved a sigh of relief as I entered the relative sanctuary of the building. Not that there weren't any touts in front of the stalls and littered about the aisles; somehow they were just less intimidating here than at the berths. I took rapid surveys, in all directions, of my immediate vicinity, and only then was I sufficiently satisfied to unplug my earphones from my iPod and save them for a rainy day. Right, down to business; I needed a ticket to Melaka.
I ambled along the aisle onto which the front row of ticket stalls looked. On their glass frontages were displayed names of the nation's major towns, along with a smattering of times and ticket rates. I snatched furtive glimpses of each of these glass panels, trying to get hold of a price without having to enquire of the overzealous stallholders who would subsequently be difficult to shake off. As a procedure of habit I walked to the end of this first aisle knowing full well the cheaper deals were to be found along the second aisle; stalls at the front, somewhat confoundingly, tend to find justification for being slightly more exorbitant in their pricing.
I pivoted and did a double-take onto the second aisle, and it was at this moment that a tout chose to haunt me. "Boss, nak pergi mana? KL, boss? Ipoh? Segamat? Seremban? Mana, boss? Boss?" I wanted so badly to pretend I had my earphones plugged in and was unable to hear his diatribe, and I did. Without glancing his way, without breaking stride, without even the slightest acknowledgement of his presence there, I walked on. Even so, I could not pretend to have missed his sensory assaults - I heard his raspy voice, saw his grimy clothes, smelled his cigarette breath - and this frustrated me. Under my breath, I grumbled something he had probably heard a million times over from other commuters. Still, "Nak pergi mana, boss? KL, sekarang?"
Thankfully, it wasn't long before I found a stall offering a decent price for a one-way passage to Melaka. Relieved that the daunting experience of wandering the ghoulish aisles of Larkin Bus Terminal was soon to be brought to a conclusion, I chose an agreeable time of departure, completed the formalities of exchanging sheets of soggy paper on which was printed the face of a certain monarch, and tried my hardest to listen to check-in instructions I knew I wouldn't really attempt to heed. Then, ticket in hand as a sort of protective charm against the pesky touts and their unworldly harassments, I strutted along the aisle, back the way I came. My mind drifted to more placid and sanguine places. I began to plan my itinerary for this upcoming trip, making mental notes of the people at whose homes my visit was due and of the food I wished to delect my palate with. I thought also of the gifts I needed to go shopping for prior to the trip. I reminded myself to call my uncle in Melaka who was to receive me at the bus-station there. Things were falling into place.
And then I spied, out of the corner of my eye, ten feet diagonally in front and to the right of me, the same fellow whose advances I had purposefully remained oblivious to mere minutes ago. It was then that I considered how this was his livelihood, and I knew seeing me hold someone else's ticket in my hand would disappoint him; I tried desperately to avoid being seen. "Boss!" - I had failed. A feeling of dread came over me as I awaited the next developments. "Dapat?" Surprised by the mild tone of voice, I wondered how I should respond. As it turned out I dared not make eye contact, and directed a barely perceptible nod in his direction. I hurried along, but not before stealing a glance at this man. He had given me a thumbs-up, accompanied by a generous smile.
10 years ago
