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?
A little of Sab’s simple logic helps me not to sweat it. If nothing has happened, you’ve worried needlessly, all the while putting your body chemistry out of whack. If something has happened, no matter how high your level of anxiety, it has no power to undo the event. There you have it. And so, I’m cooling my heels at higher altitude until Sab’s return. At least here, I’m breathing for the first time in days. Then what? I bas back down to that insufferable jungle? Would be so much better if she came up to my version of the Borneo paradise. As tropical rain falls in the shadow of the mountain, we would yak up a storm about the wild old days, about her wild current days.
At The Canteen, from an eclectic and reasonably priced menu, I select a snack of chicken satay with a cucumber salad. Judging from the snippets of conversation I can understand, most visitors are here to climb the mountain. At the next table, five amiable Brits engage me in the usual conversation. As soon as I open my mouth, they peg me as German. Switch their demeanour to offhand.
German? Hell no. Why German?
Your accent.
It’s French. I’m from Québec. Now a resident of Calgary. Western Canada.
They look as if they have committed a diplomatic blunder.
Don’t worry, it happens a lot. I can’t figure out why. Say, is it really cold at the top?
They laugh, friendly again: There’s a true Canadian. Chasing blizzards in the tropics, eh?
At another table, a lone pasty-white man in his sixties. Australian, judging from his accent. What do I know? He may very well be an Icelander forever mistaken for an Aussie. Brandishing an arsenal of anecdotes involving chopsticks, he is showing his prowess to youngsters from Singapore. Mistaking my stare for an invitation, he makes a beeline for me just as I get up to leave. To avoid embarrassment, he strides in a wide semi-circle, pretending to aim for the other direction, and shouts a bright see-you-later-mates to the young Chinese men who, wasting no time, resume slurping their noodles, their chopsticks flying at lightning speed.
To educate myself, I take in a slide show on the history, geology, flora and fauna of Mount Kinabalu and the surrounding region, hosted by Dr. Chu, the head naturalist. That way, when Sabourin and I manage to connect before my time on the island expires, I won’t sound a complete nincompoop. Sab was the studious one, the brilliant one who investigated every source and every lead. No detail was too picayune to neglect. Moi, on the other hand, learned vicariously through her bottomless curiosity and her ability to process information quickly and correctly. Sab, the science A student with a major in chemistry, while I muddled through general studies, skipping classes in favour of playing my guitar and practising other people’s songs. When she left Montréal to pursue post-graduate studies across the Atlantic in natural products chemistry, I was pretty miserable. I don’t think I ever told her. On account of pride. The male’s necessary aloofness. Nevertheless, her dedication to investigate plants at the molecular level impressed me so very much. Which didn’t stop little moi from turning into a dilettante macroscoping his way through a collection of undistinguished occupations to earn a living. Did I disappoint her?
Dr. Chu raising her voice in annoyance yanks me out of my distraction. I missed several slides. She gets outraged, clicking through a series of shots illustrating the blatant exploitation of the resources of Borneo, particularly the destruction of the jungle, one of the oldest habitats of the world, home for millennia to a diverse people and to countless plants and animals. Dr. Chu’s attitude is Sab’s in the flesh. How many discussions of that nature have we had? Pursued through our uninterrupted correspondence over the years. I long for us to pick up the thread.
To the audience’s astonishment, Dr. Chu shows spectacular slides of various species of Nepenthes, the famous carnivorous pitcher plants. A man in the front row pipes in about a Nepenthes rajah found in the nineteenth century by an English botanist who reported that it was thirty centimetres in diameter and contained two and a half litres of water and a drowned rat. The audience laughs and I recognize Mr. Australia showing off. Dr. Chu ties up her broken thread to present several slides of another star of the Malaysian jungle, the Rafflesia. A parasitic plant with no roots of its own that produces the largest flower on the planet. The Australian feels obliged to point out that when past its prime the flower smells like rotting flesh.
Dr. Chu instructs us that the smell of decay plays a direct role in the plant’s reproduction, as it attracts flies and carrion beetles that carry the pollen from male to female flowers. My durian comes to mind. Should have asked the vendor how close to maturity it was before purchasing it. Dr. Chu pinches her lips before pointing out the paradox that Borneo has a large jungle forest industry, and yet, must import chopsticks. Pasty-white know-it-all is on a roll, now engaging the naturalist in his favourite topic. She indulges him, until the exchange turns to babble, then without pity, in Sab’s style, she cuts him off to conclude the slide show. He rushes out of the room, announcing sudden urgent business.
Without pause, possibly to prevent the rest of the audience from streaming out, Dr. Chu begins a video about Mount Kinabalu itself, pointing out the unique flora that have captivated botanists since the nineteenth century. Today, scientists continue to gather plants on the slopes of the mountain and to discover new natural products. A challenging climb, judging from the rock formations. As long as I shiver, my goal will have been attained. Although, in walking steadily uphill, and, according to the video, on Gunung Kinabalu the uphill goes on a long way, you work up a sweat. I’m willing to take my pahit medicine to touch the cold.
And here she is! Sab’s face appearing through the foliage. Sab holding a plant by the stem as by the neck, its root system dangling in mid-air. Sab, tall and grinning among her fellow plant hunters. And, unless this is a trick of light, not even sweating. As the video ends and Sab vanishes before my eyes, I jump to my feet.
When was this shot? I must know. Last year? This morning? I must know.
Half of the audience laughs; the other half gathers its belongings, ready to flee the madman. Dr. Chu reaches for a paging device to call security, the army, the death squad. They’ll cart me away to the jungle loony bin where I’ll sweat, forever sweat, in the realm of relentle
ss humidity. Better beat a discreet retreat. Go lounge about at the cabin. Get into the proper tropical mode of zero exertion. Or should I go ahead and climb Gunung K.? And run into Sab? During my fantasizing earlier, my instincts must have told me she was nearby. In the video, tall Sab is still wearing her hair too short. It accentuates her awkward features.
Outside, as I’m weighing my options, the Australian catches up with me.
G’day, mate. You here to climb?
Haven’t decided yet. You?
We gave this hill a burl more than once, the missus and me. Made it to the top too. Went everywhere with the missus. Those were the days. Nowadays, the old legs are a bit rooted. I better take it easy on shorter hikes. I can show you…
I may never return here. Might as well go for the top. Sorry.
No worries, mate. I’ll give you a blow-by-blow description of what to expect. Care to join me for a pint or two?
Better turn in early.
And I leave him standing in the rain. What a cad I am. The man drips with loneliness. He mentioned a missus. His dear departed? Could be a case of divorce. Either way, poor sod. What would be the harm in keeping him company for an hour? In the best tradition of mateship, two lone males in the jungle, swapping lies. As I’m reconsidering, it stops raining, and, he’s gone.
Late afternoon, daylight dimming and a thick fog obscures hills and mountains. With nightfall begins the jungle symphony of birds and insects and mammals. I take a long shower. Go sit on the veranda. Watch the mist disperse.
Gazing at the equatorial sky, I recall something Sab once wrote to me about the physical world and why she thrives on the difficult questions that it poses. No one can put a spin on physical laws. They won’t bend for anyone’s convenience or agenda. With that in mind, I eat the intoxicatingly scented pineapple, letting the sweet-tart, sticky juice run down my chin and along my arm, feeding on one of nature’s marvels. And how I marvel, this night, at the games we used to play without ever becoming a couple. And here I am, this night, perspiring with complicated pleasure. We were wise without knowing it. The sagacity of our youth preserved an enduring friendship.
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