Enough for one day

I thought life was getting incredibly routine, but I spoke too soon.

I’ve had the most traumatic day today. My suitcase was so heavy I could barely lift it and I was dreading dragging it through customs. The bus was more than half an hour late, but we got upgraded to the double-decker. It was luxuriously comfortable, the seats ergonomically designed to every slouched curve of your body, but the comfort stopped very soon after departure.

Singapore customs came off without a hitch, but at the Malaysian side, I suffered a panic attack. The immigration official at the counter I chose was completely anal. He wanted to know why I had been to and fro from Malaysia to Singapore five or six times over the last three and a half months, I tried explaining, but he didn’t buy it and kept asking, ‘Why you must holiday so much in Malaysia?!’. I must look more like an illegal immigrant than I thought – like I would much rather stay in Malaysia and find low-paid work just to run on the wrong side of the law. Anyhow, I was redirected to his senior officer. I’d have to admit, he was much nicer and far more understanding about my situation, but unfortunately, like so many people in this country, was wonderfully laid back and definitely took his own sweet time to process my passport. As I was waiting there, nervously counting away the minutes, I prayed hard that the bus wouldn’t leave without me – as late as we were running already.

Grabbed my passport with a profusion of thanks and rushed through the x-ray machine. I had one foot out the door before the customs officer grabbed my backpack, pulling me towards the counter. Imagine my utter and complete dismay. Not only do I look like an illegal immigrant, I’m obviously in a capacity to traffic drugs as well. She searched everything – my massively heavy suitcase and my deadweight of a backpack. I wasn’t praying for the bus anymore, I was begging.

As soon as she had memorized the contents of my belongings, I careened out of the doors and along the bus terminal, searching in vain, amongst the seven or eight coaches for mine. The further I ran, the lower my heart dropped. By the end of the line, I was in tears. My dad couldn’t understand me when I called on the verge of hysterics and it took me two or three tries to explain. I don’t usually overreact so badly but I had spent the last week desperately homesick and I could see the chances of me getting home as soon as I could fading fast. I was stranded at the Second Link, in the middle of no where amid a bunch of leering bus drivers and staring Chinese tour groups.

I didn’t call my dad just for help, but more for assurance that I would get home. I knew I’d have to take whatever bus I could to get there, but my dad arranged someone to drive out from Singapore to take me to Senai airport where I was booked on the 4 o’clock flight to KL. He did all that in the space of fifteen minutes, in the car, on the way back from the golf course. My dad’s a hero.

Thankfully, I didn’t have resort to that, and at 3 o’clock, hailed the next Nice bus that was on the way through customs. My stomach was doing flips as the driver carefully scrutinized the remnants of my incredibly crumpled ticket. When he had ascertained that everything was in order, I shoved my suitcase into the luggage hold and sank into the spare seat, sheer relief washing my tears away.