Rising Abruptly (8 page)

And slowly, the housekeeper thanks me for my concerns, but her brother will be all right.

The housekeeper's brother was the one who was gored by a babi?

Yes, brother will be fine, very bad in belly, but will be fine.

The clearer situation still leaves me with one question: I understand. Thank you. But tell me. Why did the doctor not leave a written message for me, her friend who has come all the way from Canada, at the doctor's invitation?

This bit of simple reasoning is met with dead silence, then heavy breathing, then a plea not to ask any more questions, it is not the housekeeper's place to interfere in the private affairs of the doctor, please.

Okay, I'm not here to give the poor woman the third degree; and certainly not in this heat. I apologize and she thanks me, insisting that the doctor will be back soon.

I wish her a nice day and put down the receiver. Have a nice day in your steam bath.

I need a cold shower. Strip and freak right out. My hairy chest and belly are covered in prickly heat. Even my penis. Now, that worries me. Sab might recommend an ointment extracted from some jungle roots or the application of curative leaves. To me, the best cure remains the cold compress of Canada. Nothing short of sinking into an alpine tarn would stop my sweat glands from overheating. A long cold shower could do the trick. Unfortunately, the single tap delivers only lukewarm water. I linger under that shower.

Naked as a badly skinned rabbit, with fur still on the chest and its flesh covered in raised red itchy spots, I pull back the sheet. Gingerly lie down flat on my back. Spread-eagled. Motionless. Fall into a deep sleep. Dreamless.

Wake up with a splitting headache. Examine my dick. Seems okay. But notice an angry blister or pimple the size of a marble in the right-side groin. The seat of the earlier irritation. Squeeze it. Swollen and painful. It oozes a little. Can't make head or tail of it. One of those horrendous tropical parasites that pierces its way through your skin and reproduces inside of you? I dab the growth with rubbing alcohol from my first-aid kit and stick a Band-Aid over it. Should phone the bungalow. If Sab is back, no doubt she will have an explanation and a suggested treatment. But it's siesta time in the jungle and I wouldn't want to disturb the already distraught housekeeper.

Instead, I duck into the heat of the afternoon. In three minutes, my T-shirt is soaked. Walk along the waterfront. South China Sea. The romance of the tropics. Fish being off-loaded and processed. Offal and other garbage thrown into the sea. Amines, Sab once told me, are a class of compounds found in rotting fish, which accounts for that characteristic smell. Amines prosper here.

Kids swim in a lagoon. I would join the sea urchins if the water appeared less polluted. But I drag my soaked ass back to the hotel. Guzzle a beer in the bar. Go back to my cooler. Wrap a towel around my head, slip under the sheet and have a snooze to catch up from the previous sleepless nights.

In the evening, I eat laksa, fried squid and curried prawn. Nurse four beers. Watch the locals at their lives. Friendly, helpful, always smiling, nobody hassles you, nobody seems to quarrel. Malays, Chinese, tribespeople. A large Muslim population; the men wearing black felt caps and the women colourful hijab-like scarves.

Still hot and humid. The unbearable country of the single season. You're dripping wet within minutes of walking. Men in impeccably laundered white clothes are resting beside dilapidated houses. At the night market, I buy a pineapple and a durian. The pineapple, because it's so perfectly ripe, the scent as never I have smelled it, I had to have it. The durian, because of its reputation. A scary-looking fruit, durian, the size of a honeydew melon. This one specimen weighs five pounds on the scale.

Native to Malaysia, the vendor proudly reveals. A dozen species available. Tonight, only this one kind. He further impresses me with the fact that it is the only fruit tigerly enough for tigers to crave. And he stresses that I must hide Tiger's favourite in my small pack. Not allowed in hotels, airports or airplanes. Because of the fruit's foul odour once opened. Or because, I tell him, wielded as a weapon, the hard spiky shell could cause serious bodily harm. In turn, he quips that anyone unfortunate enough to fall asleep under a durian tree wakes up with a sorry tale to tell. With a twinkle in his eye, the vendor hands me the original forbidden fruit.

At the speed of a West Coast slug, swollen groin making walking uncomfortable, I ambulate back to the hotel taking in the pleasant side of the city. Broken sidewalks and open sewers. From everything rise effluvia of vegetation rot, rendered so very sharp in the infernal heat. Sab walking by my side. Cool, uncomplicated. Cerebral Sab not hampered by emotional baggage. She may speak brusquely, but she also knows how to listen. And always ready to share knowledge. To many, her exact logical mind pegs her as a cold fish. Those people fail to appreciate how low-maintenance she is. And that, above all, is so refreshing. And at the moment, I could use a large dose of Sab's coolness. In this suffocating country, where could she be?

In the hotel lobby, several whorish-looking girls are loitering. Ah, the Sultry Woman of the tropics. This hotel either moonlights as a brothel in the evening or a wedding reception is in progress in the ballroom.

Up at seven A.M. to take advantage of cool morning. Cool? Not a chance! Two steps from the equator, the country has but one season of sameness.

I should phone the bungalow again. Sab may be back from collecting, slouched in one of the big chairs on her veranda, pahit in hand, watching the molasses river
flow
by, wondering where I might be. At least I have good news. The red welts are more subdued after the night in my air-conditioned room. And my dick is pale again. Though unfortunately, the growth on my groin is not abating.

Eat dim sun in a small Chinese shop around the corner from the hotel. The only coolness provided by the ceiling fan. More like churning river water to fool you into believing it's drinkable. On the wall, posters warn about a cholera epidemic.

Stroll to a square lined with minibuses. Several teenage boys converge toward me. They call themselves runners. Their job is to hustle potential passengers.

Bas, mister? Bas, mister?

It would be erroneous to call them barkers since they practise their trade without shouting.

Bas?

They point at the minibuses.

And where do these bases go, might I ask?

Everywhere. Where you want to go, mister?

Anywhere cool?

Cool?

I'm seriously considering flying right back home to go lie down on the Columbia Icefield. Contrary spirits. At the equator, dreaming of snow; back home in February, pining for palm trees. The boys yank me out of my wintry rêverie by suggesting a few cool places. A temple complex on the outskirts of town. The botanical garden and the herbarium with many species of medicinal plants. A newly opened high-tech disco. Declaring the third point of interest the coolest.

Since plants with medicinal properties are right up Sabourin's alley, the staff at the herbarium may know the doctor's whereabouts. Beware! A tropical botanical garden promises more steamy heat. Will break out in hives again.

The eldest runner affirms with a smile: All cool places, mister.

The others acquiesce: All cool.

No no. Cool as in. And I mime shivering.

They immediately point up and away: Kinabalu, mister.

Kinabalu here. I point at my feet and mime dying of heat.

They laugh: No no, mister. Here is K.K. There is Gunung Kinabalu.

The eldest recites the lesson: “Kota” means town in Malay. Here is Kota Kinabalu. Over there is Mount Kinabalu.

Nabalu, spirits of the dead. That contribution from the shyest runner.

And it's cool?

They all assent energetically.

Again, the eldest runner provides vital information: Top of mountain is over four thousand metres above sea.

This is encouraging. If the boy's pitch is to be believed. Even so near the equator, at that altitude, I may catch a few hours of shivering. Hypothermia in Borneo; what a novel idea! And not a bad place to wait for Sabourin to return from her rare plant collecting expedition, or wild goose chase.

Is it far?

Seventy kilometres from coast. Two hours by bas. Good sealed road. Eight ringgits one way. Cheap.

Okay, pal, you made a sale. Which bas goes to Gunung Kinabalu?

He leads me by the elbow to one of the minibuses, while the other runners fan out, resuming their work hustling potential passengers.

I can't go right away. First, I have to get my stuff at the hotel and check out. When will the next bas leave?

We wait.

How long?

Until you finish at hotel. No rush.

But, not believing they will wait too long, I do rush. Half an hour later, drenched and laden with my possessions stowed into my large backpack, including the pineapple and the well-camouflaged durian, I hop on the bas, which duly departs, now that the twelve seats have been filled.

I enjoy more poskad views. The suburbs of the state capital feature a mixture of decrepit houses on stilts surrounded by fields full of scrapped cars and assorted junk, chickens and roosters running loose among the refuse. Reminds me of the Québec countryside of my childhood, minus the free fowls and the extreme heat. Here and there rises a modern bungalow, complete with a new car amid the squalor. Mangy half-starved dogs with sores run rampant. Stunned water buffalo lie half-buried in black mud.

On the phone before I checked out, the housekeeper seemed a little baffled. Did she understand where I was going? Note? No, doctor left no note. No note. She was becoming agitated again. No no,
I
want to leave a note
for
the doctor. Can you write this down? She claimed she had no pen nearby. Silly me! What if she can't read or write? Not true. I saw her read a magazine. No doubt, it was in Malay. I thought of suggesting that she write the note in Malay, but simply wished her a good day and hoped for the best.

Soon, the road climbs toward the mountain. Rising abruptly, its massive form dominates our field of vision even though clouds cap its summit. As the air cools, the anticipation is positively erotic. This mountain better deliver. For about twenty kilometres, we ascend almost continuously. As the boy promised, the highway is a relatively good road, but with hairpin turns and steep grades made the more entertaining each time the driver passes on blind curves. In fact, the runner withheld the small detail that the driver passes only on blind curves. Each time he performs that stunt, I concentrate on the mountain. Spirits of the dead, may you keep a kind eye on us.

I rent a large unadorned cabin with twin beds, a toilet dug into the floor and a shower that consists of a black garden hose connected to a cistern full, I assume, of rainwater, and with a veranda overlooking the jungle and surrounding hills. Except for the vegetation and extreme humidity, this area of the national park reminds me of Banff in the 1970s before it became crowded and before hordes of Japanese and Chinese package tours caused the price of lodging to skyrocket. My cabin costs forty-two ringgits a night, about twenty bucks, and the place is not crowded. Most visitors are Malaysians and other Asians from neighbouring countries, along with a sprinkling of Europeans and Americans. I'm told the park is gaining in popularity and future expansion is planned. Banff in the seventies.

Twin beds. The daily afternoon rain begins. Would be so fine if Sab showed up this instant. I fantasize that her plant collecting had brought her to this side of the mountain. And here she'd be. And we'd share this shelter as we did so many digs in our university days. Barefoot on the veranda, cool gin pahit in hand, passing a joint, surely, she could dig up some happiness-enhancing plant out of her Borneo cornucopia that would do the trick. And that wouldn't be trafficking in illicit substances, exactly, an activity frowned upon in Malaysia. Those caught face the death penalty. A stern message prominently displayed at all ports of entry. Duly warned. Now, I am wondering if Sab didn't duly warn the housekeeper not to worry me. Was it Sab who was gored by the babi? Or searching for the impossible plant, did she fall into the ravine and break all of her bones?