I spend an hour at the jetty at Kualar Besut, God's Armpit, awaiting a mythical bus. After 40 minutes of horn honking and staring, of which Jane Austen provides little protection, my reading is interrupted by a man on a motorbike. He informs me that the bus I am waiting for does not exist. He's smiling a little too hard, and further discredits his story by reappearing behind the wheel of a cab a few moments later. He will take me to a destination of my choosing for the bargain price of "wun-zero-zero!" I decline his offer (the bus will cost only 7) and retreat back into Regency-era Bath.
A View From The Bus Stop
Another 20 minutes. I give in and haul myself to the bus station. I'm greeted by a bevy of over eager bus drivers asking where I'd like to go.
"I want to go south" I whimper pathetically. They look confused. I take out my guidebook, turn to a map of the region and point downwards. They confer for some moments, and the head driver tells me to come back at 8pm, and they'll see what they can do.
Waiting for the bus (there are two more under the clock)
By 9.30pm, I'm being chauffeured by Mr Head Bus Driver in his private car, along with a woman and her young son. They are determined to track down a bus for us. I don't much care to where. I convince myself that Woman And Her Young Son are not in cahoots with Mr Head Bus Driver. They are not going to deliver me unto evil/the white slave trade.
At 2.30am, I'm ejected onto the highway at the sleepy beach town of Cherating. Arguably, most places are somewhat subdued at that hour of the night, but as I trundle my suitcase down the dark, empty, silent road, it feels particularly creepy. It does not help that there is a full moon.
The first hostel I try is set back into the woods some way. All is deserted. I come upon an open-air reception/lounge area, with 2 or 3 battered leather sofas I could, at a push, kip on for the night and be all apologies in the morning, instantly checking in and ordering expensive smoothies from the bar for the duration of my stay. But something about the place gives me the serious creeps. It's just too quiet and too dark and too surrounded by dense forest. Add a porch swing and it would be the set from The Evil Dead. A few empty beer cans and a recent banana peel look like they have been dropped, in haste, and will only encourage monkeys. I move on.
The only living soul in Cherating - a night porter, watching lesbian porn on youtube, with his feet up on a huge reception desk - gives me some vague accommodation info. He is not pleased at being disturbed, and sends me on my way. I let him get back to Tiffany and Amanda and set off once more.
Another hostel, another refusal: the only room left, her best, is 4 times what I want to pay. Minutes later, the owner is calling me back from the road: a passing driver has taken pity on my plight, and has offered to pay for the room for me! I'm confused, overjoyed and exhausted, and led into The Royal Honeymoon Penthouse Guest Suite, which is the filthiest, mustiest hovel I have ever had the misfortune to spend the night. I'm handed a key, and can't help but wonder if my mysterious benevolent benefactor has been given a copy, but I'm too tired to be cynical.
The shower is so vile I do not want to get naked in it. But I must, I must take on my final challenge of the day and do battle with the enemy: my three-day-old, sand/sea/salt drenched, unwashed hair. I check the mirror. As feared, we have left the long, tousled, sexy beach waves behind long ago. I am The Evil Dead.
I can't sleep because the stench from the pillows is overpowering, taking on the smell of human excrement. In the morning, I will escape, I will find the Matahari Chalets, I will get a lovely rustic wooden hut with a veranda and writing desk over looking palm trees, with bunnies in a hutch behind my house. I will breakfast at a gingham table-clothed cafe. I will go on a moonlight firefly riverboat tour and it will be magical, and all this will a horrible, horrible nightmare of musty misery.
In the morning, all these things happen, and I find out the Scary Outdoor Sofa Hostel I almost crashed at is Haunted, and the locals Do Not Talk About It and No One Ever Stays There Ever.
But the beer cans! The banana peel!
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