Addicted

I knew it could be addictive and that there was no way I should think about taking it...especially in this part of the world. I don't have an addictive personality but the idea of trying it wouldn't let me be, especially on the longer, lonelier days. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted it and knew it would only be a matter of time...just waiting for the right opportunity. And in Malaysia surprisingly (to me anyway) it is plentiful and cheap. It seems like all the travellers over here use it and when I arrived in Jeruntut, surrounded by westerners for the first time in days, I succumbed to my desire. Just a little once or twice would be really fun, and wasn't it time for a little fun after all? I'd get out of my head for a bit and just BE...in a totally different place.
"Just a little, once or twice, turned out to be awesome!" What a rush. But what began as a little harmless fun, a quick escape, morphed into a jag and I find myself at the end of a buzzy, speedy week-long binge that is feeling more like the beginnings of an addiction. It has rocked me somewhat and made me question not only the nature of this trip, but the nature of James...not as strong as I thought, apparently. Now I am sitting here on Panang Island off of the NW coast of Malaysia tryng to piece together just how it is I got here. But it's no use. Blurred images flash by but all too fast, and jaggedly edited with fitful, short bursts of interrupted sleep. But that's today and I am getting ahead of myself. This story (and I need to tell it... like a confession, to redeem myself and try to begin anew) begins a week ago...10 days maybe, not sure, it's all compressed/blurred/fast. Ten days ago in Jeruntut, God, it seems so long ago. It was so innocent when I look back on it, but I was playing with fire. It's a big reason I haven't blogged for the past few days.
Having safely stored and locked my bike I took my first step toward addiction and stepped into the airconditioned minibus. I sat in the plush velour seats and smiled blissfully as the scenery began to pass by. Fourty, fifty, maybe sixty km/hr and I wasn't pedalling. I wasn't sweating, my crotch felt like it should while sitting on a velour seat, I wasn't even moving. Stillness inside while the world blurred past. It was so damn easy...too easy and I let go and enjoyed the ride. After 45 minutes we arrived and I eagerly awaited the next high. I didn't have to wait long as I walked down to the river bank and climbed into the boat. For the next 3 luxurious hours I sat in a haze as the sampan glided gracefully up the Jembeling River. My fingers traced lazy "S" shapes in the murky brown water as I looked at my feet crossed over the side of the boat. They weren't ceaselessly pumping up and down but completely still until I wiggled my toes letting the warm humid airblow through them. "A guy could get used to this" I thought, smiling, as we slipped deeper into the jungle. And oh, how quickly I got used to it!
Now that I look back on it I think that Sampan ride is probably what did it. The ride was perfect. It was also the way home and the return trip was just as easy, just as sweet. After that I was hooked on Public Transportation (movement without moving) but not willing to admit it. All I knew was I wanted more. I began seeking it out and realized it's everywhere...it even started coming to me. My poor bike wasn't put on the back burner, per se, my bike was removed from the kitchen. My beautiful Rodriquez that has taken such good care of me all this time was forgotten, discarded and collecting dust in some hotel storage room, or rattling around in the baggage car of some rickety train or being crushed under luggage in the underbelly of a long- distance bus. I couldn't have cared less and even resented the the lonely looks and plaintive glances it began to cast in my direction. One night I left it outside locked to a pipe in the rain on a dark street in Kuala Lumpur as if to say "take it, steal it I don't care...I could get to Bangkok in a day if it weren't for the bike always slowing me down". But no one did and we are still together...my shame and guilt now palpable as she has treated me with nothing but love and respect. I haven't ridden my bike once since that first boat ride even though that heady, giddy feeling of the sampan is long gone. That memory now replaced by the dark reality of a public transportation binge: dingy state run trains with grease stained windows, privately owned busses blaring Hindi music while the drivers chain smoke, crowded light rail sardine cans, city busses with the ticket takers screaming out the destinations during the whole drive (my favorite being KLANG! KLANG! KLANG! which broadcasts more like a sound effect than a destination).
Sure each form of public transportation has its ugly side effects, but you can learn to ignore them and get through that pain...because it's worth it! For example lets examine what it is to take the bus out of Kuala Lumpur. The basement of the Puduraya bus station is a tangle of busses, people, and luggage. Poorly lit and under-ventilated, the walls and ceiling are black with the years of thick diesel smoke. I reflected how I wouldn't be down here choking back nausea and lung cancer in the swealtering fog of 50-75 idling busses if I were out cycling in the countryside. I pushed that thought from my bus addicted brain and imagined the bus careening effortlessly down the highway. The previous night, just one floor above the chaos, while walking toward the ticket lines, I came across a dead body. With people milling around a hastily erected barrier, there was a body lying on the floor. Covering it up with newspapers was the young man whose snack stall this guy had decided to die in front of. I'm not sure how long he was down. There were no police or EMS people around but enough time had elapsed to organise the barrier and covering. "I know CPR. Call 9-1-1 someone give me a hand" is what I didn't say as I wondered about the quality of pre-hospital care in Malaysia. Instead I went off to purchase my ticket while fighting off the crowd of hawkers shouting for business and I even haggled a little. When I came back to the body there were still no police or EMS personnel around but as I left the massive terminal I heard an approaching siren. Another experience I probably won't have while cycling alone in the fresh air I considered gloomily..."but the distances you can go in a day!", I heard a soothing voice in my head saying. "Public transportaion rocks" I thought.
Hell, I've ridden them all now and though not proud of it I know I'll do them again. I even took a taxi...TWICE. And there is a ferry in my near future too. If it's not pedal powered I'll take it, ride it, sit on it, stand up, whatever...I don't care. I'm going down a dark, black road all alone but at least it's not at 20 km/hr on a bike!