Dying to Live

Chapter 32 - Take Me to Cuba

The journey is arduous, boring and damned uncomfortable, yet it's the most glorious trip I've ever been on. The old van bumps and bounces its way down a dirt track which cuts through dense forest, there's not much to see other than trees, of course.

"This shortcut," says Jack the driver.

"Like the shortcut a London cabbie would take to bolster his fare," Marty whispers to me.

"I don't think so. He's being paid a fixed amount, so why would he make the trip longer than it needs to be? Anyway, I don't care as long as we get to Kuala Lumpur in one piece."

"I guess Jack's not your real name," I say. Might as well make conversation to pass the time in what's going to be a long old journey.

"No, Jack real name," he says.

I'm not sure I believe him, I'm assuming he's adopted the name, like James, the cabbie in Bangkok did to make it easy for us Europeans. Who cares, it offers my inane sense of humour an opportunity to make a stupid joke.

"Hi Jack, take me to Cuba." He looks at me like I've two heads, in much the same way as my Bangkok cabbie had looked at me when I'd said 'home James.'

WHAM. CRACK. Another bone-rattling pothole puts a premature stop to our conversation. I bounce so high my head smacks against the roof.

"Shit."

"Maybe we should lower our expectations," says Marty. "Arriving in two or three pieces might be the best we can hope for."

WHAM. CRACK. WHAM. CRACK. The potholes are getting deeper and more frequent so I suspect he may be right.

"Pee time," says Jack as he skids the van to a halt.

We all get out and find a tree, which isn't hard in a jungle. With eyes closed, and a sense of urgency I hadn't noticed until I unzipped, I let go a steaming stream of wee.

"Good timing, Jack, I needed that."

"Jack knows things," says Jack. Inscrutable or what?

I breathe in the damp air, it's jungle damp, not pee damp. The smell is fresh and somehow alive which is odd because the ground is carpeted with a thick layer of dead leaves. The variety of trees, bushes and plants is astounding but all the aromas have mingled to create what I can only describe as a deep green smell. We are miles from civilisation so there's no pollution, apart from the acrid stink of our van's diesel fumes.

"Let's go," shouts Jack.

We all clamber back into the van and Jack guns the engine into what passes for life with this old crate. Hour after uneventful hour passes although the subtle dimming of the light filtering through the trees is a marvel to behold and it also seems to act as Jack's clock.

"Time to stop," says Jack. "You sleep in van or tent. Choose."

The smell inside the van makes up my mind for me. Four men bouncing around in near unbearable heat does not create an aroma conducive to sleep.

"Tent," I say at the same moment that Marty says 'van'.

"Tent, Marty. Come on, it'll be like being kids again, camping out in the open."

"What about the snakes and mosquitos and tigers? There was none of that sort of shit in Croydon."

"Look, remember Mookjai told us that these guys don't get paid unless we arrive safe and sound at Kuala Lumpur airport. They won't take any chances with us, isn't that right, Jack?"

The long pause before he answers makes me think he's about to tell me a lie.

"Me and Akmal always hope guests say van, tent best for sleep."