Border crossings

The minibus was only half an hour late picking me up from the hotel, not entirely unexpected. Neither was the hour we spent driving around the suburbs of Penang collecting other passengers, or the air-conditioning that gave the bus that sticky, unhealthy feel. The huge, snaking queues at the Thai border were a bit of a surprise though. I stood in one line for about half an hour, only to get to the front and be told to “No 5”. Not quite believing the injustice of this request, I went to front of the queue at kiosk No 5, only to be met with assorted shrieks of disapproval from the rest of the line. I went to the back and waited for another hour, amused alternatively by my iPod and the plight of a hippy with a mohican whose Malaysian exit visa couldn’t be read. With increasing levels of frustration he went from official to official, before eventually running back to the Malaysian border control to get anther stamp. Even the queue at No 5 showed him some sympathy and let him go straight to the head of the line.