The crossing




In Kuala Terengganu, on the day we were to depart for Kuala Lumpur, the weather was gloomy. The clouds hung low, the sun went into hiding. There was an earthy scent, an unusual coolness, in the air.


The Editor, MazManja and I bought an 80 sen ticket for the bot penambang that would take us across the Kuala Terengganu river to Seberang Takir. The bot penambang was a quaint little water vehicle, painted in the bright colours of pink, yellow and green. It went chug-chug-chug over the murky waters of the river. The journey took less than ten minutes but it was a therapeutic crossing for me.


I put my face to the window and breathed in the scent of the river. The engine purred lazily in a rhythmic, hypnotic tempo, and I set my pulse to it. I think I left all my worries on the Kuala Terengganu side of the river. The other passengers, so used to this life, carried theirs with them across the waters.


Only a small river separated it from Kuala Terengganu, and yet Seberang Takir couldn't be more different than its capital city. We arrived on its shores late evening when the day's work had all been done, when children abandoned their homework to play outdoors, when time aged largo.


As we made our way around, the Editor told me about the blind poet from these parts. I have forgotten his name now.


We entered a little coffeeshop and ordered keropok lekor, goreng pisang and lime teas in ice. We got used to the presence of flies -- almost ignored them -- as we discovered the true taste of keropok lekor, the Malaysian fish on a stick.


Not too far away was the sea with a new embankment of rough-red rock that crunched underfoot. We walked clumsily across it and the physical effort required to trudge on it shook loose a memory of walking in thick snow in Columbia, body wrapped in layers of jacket that offered little protection.


We came to the edge of the embankment. Here, children played self-invented games with sandals and Coke bottles. Cats came out to sun themselves under cloudy skies. Two makeshift goalposts marked a football field. Down by the surf, men cast their thin lines into the waters for a lucky catch or two.


The quiet of Seberang Takir seemed predictable and safe. Life here seemed protected. We three stood there for a while, looking out to sea. We were reluctant to return to Kuala Lumpur.


Photo by Kornél Kiss on Unsplash

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