It was five hours later. Every one else got off at the bus station in Johor Bahru.
My mother and I exchanged looks. “Oh, dear.”
Now I really know the meaning to this: what you get, is what you pay for.
“Bas ni ada pergi Singapore tak?”
“Saya kena bawak bas ni masuk Singapore lah…”
Sighs of relief, but in the next one hour, I cannot help but feel as though we were in the Amazing Race as we rushed through customs and immigration departments before reboarding the bus – you know, just in case the driver decides that it will not be worth waiting the two remaining passengers.
(Just so you know, however, the bus dropped us off at another station when we were back in Kuala Lumpur. That is it, no more cheap bus tickets. I will tear it up should I see one. Grrrrr.)
But… it was all right. I actually bothered stepping into another country just to see one of my favourite bands play live to an audience.
And I was a part of that audience.
For a while, that was all that matters.
Nothing – not the Ducktours, Hippotours, nor the Night Safari could beat that fact.