Shih-Li Kow's A Famous STORY Part 1. ITS A Novel

                                       

Shi-li Pictures at nine o'clock in the morning, the Millers hurried to feel their presence. They called their greetings and congratulated Benoit on the fat breakfast of noodles. The quality of the cuisine of Benoit was unpredictable; I suspected she echoed her mood, Sosa, when she was bored, with a lot of taste when she was stressed, and almost ungenius when she was in bad spirits. The kitchen of a Benoit in recovery, in equilibrium, was a mystery.

The miller told him that they wanted to see the three lakes. I had arranged for her to pay Ismet to take her, and Mr. Miller wanted to fish. Mrs. Miller said with an exaggerated sigh: "I shall be so angry, but she loves to fish." I was the fourth person at this angel party. Too many weeks have passed since I was last in the water and I am looking forward to the trip. I was accustomed to the ISMT company, but I had to endure the other two.

We went to the pier in Jerome hired by the Millers. Mr. Miller wanted to drive and get into the driver's seat with the car around him as a box of armored matches. A big man like him should have picked up a bigger car. I was imagining Peggy Miller at the car rental counter at the airport, standing next to their trolley pockets, saying, "Oh, darling." We need to rent a small car from May-lay-sian. "We have to see for ourselves how much it leads." To be fair, I hardly knew Mrs. Miller, and certainly not good enough to make these assumptions about you. She was probably a perfect woman, but, well, I just don't like her face. As long as I have not said it, we could preserve the demands of hospitality.

The farther away from the city we drove, the narrower it became the streets until there was no sidewalk and the thickets grew on the edge of the runway. "Turn left, after the shield," said Ismet, pointing out a sign faded by the Ministry of Cultural Diversity, cultural heritage and Tourism, urging eco-tourism. "The fourth woman in the lake." Discover the natural wonders of Malaysia, he said. Someone had injected a black line of paint sur ' wonders ' et écrit ' Pajeros ' à this topic. I thought it was a little weird. This was not a common word spoken in Lubok-yong, much less seen in writing.

We went down the road on a road dented by motorcycles that run the average kilometer to the lakes. This was limited by a brushed wall on both sides, so high that some feather tips to dust the top of our car bent. Some were smashed, perhaps by a car in front of us, that to give another way, and long broken blades were wounded on the ground. We beat the old mud and heard the occasional piece of laterite noise against our undercarriage. Mrs. Miller, sitting with me in the back, was without complaining and took the heat and the potholes in a good mood.

Mr. Miller laughed and said, "Let's go." Farewell to the Green Sea. It was delayed for Mrs. Miller to take a picture.

We saw the hill first. The cliff climbed forward, a monolithic limestone mass with dense dark trees. Then the lakes came in sight, black green and not reflected in spite of the calm of the water. Where you have waited on a mirror, reflected a blue sky diluted with clouds of canvas floating on its surface, there was none. Fourth woman of the lake swallowed all reflections and did not offer such a beauty. There was a slight murmur of rain, but the sun took over and the clouds of rain kept their content, obedient to the light of day and the patron of the fishermen. If there was a threat of rain, I felt it in the abundance of the lake and not in the sky.

When we arrived at the pier, we saw some motorcycles accidentally parked on the grass like grazing animals. Our rental boat, a tourist boat that took visitors to a loop from the lake, waited. For ten Ringgit, donned a life vest, sits in one of the eight plastic seats that collected the water to dampen the suspected media, and rose near the limestone rocks to see the darkness, the Maws of the caves. A Outcrop with a solitary shrub from the wall of the cliff came to show something, and say, "This is where the princess jumped," a beautiful improvement in history.

With few tourists the boat was hardly used. Mrs. Miller seemed to know what she had to do. He pulled out a towel from his pocket and deleted his seat. Then he turned to his arms with a mosquito repellent. Husband and wife slipped into the life jackets hanging beside their seats.

Ismet killed the engine and took the boat on a big sign-curve. A wave of croissant has fanned behind us. The men who fish on the benches greeted and forgave the noise we made. Mrs. Miller came back, smiling. We have a sweep near the limestone for the teats to make pictures. I was not in the mood to do the Tour-guide chatter, so I kept my mouth shut, and pretending to inspect my bars and buckets. I did not underline the Outcrop, and I ignored ISMT when he looked at me. His English was not good enough to tell the whole story of the princess and the CSA, but I did not speak that day. When I spoke, these tourists would speak again, and I wanted to fish, not to make polite noises and play the silly native.

He had a plastic tub of crickets and maggots for bait. I also had some chicken skin flavored with fish food that I wanted to try. It was an idea I got out of the swamp people, these crocodile hunters I saw on Astro. We had a fishing for Mr. Miller. Ismet took the boat in the middle of the lake, in the shadow of the cliffs that were thrown on the water, and cut the engine. Mrs. Miller drew a book from her pocket.