Read Online Rising Abruptly by Gisèle Villeneuve - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gisèle Villeneuve
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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?
Iâm 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 Sabourinâs alley, the staff at the herbarium may know the doctorâs 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: âKotaâ 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 itâs 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 boyâs 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 canât 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 canât 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
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?
Iâm 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 Sabourinâs alley, the staff at the herbarium may know the doctorâs 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: âKotaâ 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 itâs 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 boyâs 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 canât 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 canât 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
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