Yusri lit a cigarette, using the car's electric lighter. Progress, he reflected. How very far we have come.Pressing down on the accelerator, he found that the car responded beautifully. The highway ahead was straight and deserted. A little more, he thought, and the speedometer rose easily to 120 kilometers per hour. In the fields to his right, a farmer leaned on his hoe, looking up just in time to see the blue car streak past. Yusri noticed the edge of a vast palm oil estate a little further up the road and soon he was speeding by row after uniform row of green palm leaves atop stubby brown trunks.
Not far ahead, the Highway rose slightly to the crest of a small hill where an old tractor was moving slowly upward, pulling a large wagon-load of palm oil fruit behind. Yusri sounded the horn and steered the car into the the right lane to pass. However, just as he was about to pull even with the wagon at the top of the hill, a motorcycle suddenly appeared, coming directly at him from the blind side of the rise.
Quickly swinging the car further to the right and off the road, Yusri narrowly avoided a head-on collision with the biker, but the shoulder of the road turned out to be soft clay, sloping down into a gully on the other side of the hill and he was unable to pull the car back onto the highway. Down the car slid, the tires spinning wildly and bits of muddy red clay scattering in all directions. It finally came to a halt at the bottom.
Yusri's heart was pounding violently. What cursed luck! he thought and struck the steering wheel with his fist. How shall I ever reach Kampong Maju now?
Seconds later, his anger was interrupted by a tapping at the window. It was the tractor driver. "You've had an accident," he gasped, breathing heavily from his run down the hill.
Yusri swallowed and opened the window, feeling terribly embarrassed. "There was motorcyclist, was there not?"
"Yes," the driver replied. "He is all right, though. I think he is coming back now. Are you injured at all?"
Yusri shook his head. All was lost.
"Allah is merciful," the driver nodded. "Perhaps I can pull you car back onto the road with my tractor. But it will have to wait until the morning, I fear. I must deliver my load before I can unhitch the wagon. That will be late this evening."
Yusri reluctantly agreed. It was a fortunate offer, but he had to reach the village by sunset. Everyone was expecting him. Moreover, it would be impossible for him to return the long distance to collect his car the next day. He would simply have to abandon it for the time being, then pick it up on the return journey two days later. The decision was unpleasant, but he had no choice.
When the motorcyclist arrived a few minutes later, he was most grateful to Yusri for reacting quickly. They exchanged apologies in a formal manner, then the biker offered to ride him to the next town where he could catch a bus to Kampong Maju. Again, Yusri hesitated, but agreed. How could he possible carry two large bags and his suitcase while straddling the back of a small motorbike? His plans for a triumphant arrival were rapidly melting. In resignation, he chose those gifts which could be carried easily and put them in one bag, while placing the others in the trunk of the car. Then, he selected a few sweetcakes, some fruit and a wristwatch to give to the tractor driver for his help.
Although the sun was shining brightly overhead, the next few hours passed like a nightmare for Yusri: the silent ride to the next town, the long wait for the bus to arrive, the hot and crowded conditions inside the bus, and all along, the anxiety of knowing the villagers would see him in such a disgraceful state. His shirt was damp with sweat and his shoes were caked with clay. He had removed his tie and opened his collar to get some relief from the heat and humidity, but this only added to his disheveled appearance. He felt the eyes of the other passengers falling on him and he could read the disapproval in their gaze. Surely he has stolen that suit, for look at his dirty feet. Perhaps he's a foreigner. Dressed as he is, he is surely not of these parts. Yusri's journey seemed to take forever.
* * * * * Far down the coast, time passed just as slowly for another man, Yusri's father. Standing by the highway with two friends, Ahmad Daud was understandably anxious. He had waited years for this day.
"Mahmud," he said, turning to the taller of his companions. "Are you certain that the bus arrives on the hour? It grows quite late."
The young man looked at his watch. "Another twenty minutes. It's not such a long time."
The third man, whose name was Nasir, was the eldest of the three. He laughed and said, "A wife may die ten times in the hour before her husband's boat returns."
Ahmad Daud picked up the challenge and smiled, "A fisher must sometimes cook his catch."
Nasir countered, "The eager novice makes a tangle of the nets."
