There was a time when a bus trip from my neighbourhood in the suburbs of Kajang to the town centre cost 50 sen. Despite a brouhaha the fare then rose to 80 sen, but the return trip jumped more than a 100 percent to RM1.80.

The first time I got hit by this remarkable feat, perhaps only in Malaysia, I was hot under the collar and argued with the conductor briefly. The other passengers shot me glances that seemed to ask 'what's wrong with the old fool?'.

As was walking back home from the bus stop, I was still incensed, puzzling over the logic or the lack of it; wondering how the devil did the distance would be greater on the return trip. It appeared to be the same to me.

What was more, at the Kajang terminal, which is open to the elements as well as exhaust fumes, a transport company official had asked my destination just as I was about to board the bus. When I gave him the answer, he stopped me saying passengers travelling to KL had priority.

Over the months and much water under the bridge later, my family returned to our old residence. In between an acquaintance jogged my memory about the fare puzzle.

I had forgotten that this outstanding zone arrangement to scalp short haul passengers was designed to help bus companies survive.

Transport used to be business of both the private and public sectors, mainly the former except for train and air travel.

When government started interfering big time in the private sector's preserve, the woes started rolling out within a relatively short period. And that gave birth to the zoning system to prevent the preferred public transport companies from going belly-up.

New landscape

So, there I was on my first trip to Kajang town since returning to the old neighbourhood and I discovered two miracles: a covered bus stop and next to it, a covered pedestrian bridge spanning the KL-Seremban highway.

They do double duty, these bus stops. Aside from their job specification as a waiting place for passengers, they are also a convenience for the practice of patience in relative comfort.

And, trust me on this, you need oodles of that when your frustrated eyes fall on the departing end of a bus just a few strides away from the bus stop; the next arrival depends on the whims of the gods.

Luckily the weather was mild and not blazing hot that time. Got up and sat down again countless times while the eyes were straining at the distance attempting to snare the sight of a Kajang- bound bus. It's not a recommended way to practise patience.

Soon, there appeared a nattily dressed elderly gentleman. Now, there was a picture of patience. Or was it one of resignation? His handsomely seamed face, perched near six feet from the ground, wore an unemotional and remote look. His gaze was steady but unreadable.

The bus finally came and my heart sang as I found a window seat. The conductor was a surprise. He was elderly with a few strands of grey hair still stubbornly clinging to his scalp.

During previous trips, the conductors, most of them male, had been in the late 20s or 30s; now they seem to be robbing geriatric homes to fill the vacancies, apparently a sign of the times.

Another shock was waiting along theway. The road to Kajang was narrow enough in the old days, but it has been positively dwarfed into a country lane under the finally completed (whew!) and imposing Silk expressway that's aimed at swinging traffic heading for Seremban away from Kajang town.

As I felt disorientated with this sudden change in the landscape, I had to keep so a sharp eye out for familiar landmarks so that I could disembark before the town itself.

To add to the tension, the bell in the bus decided to go on strike. I saw at least three people trying in vain to get some response out of it. So, prudence dictated that I go right to the front to catch the attention of the driver, and get off.

Once on the ground, it didn't take me long to accomplish my errand and I was back on the roadside, ready for a long wait for a bus.

In less than five minutes or so, an empty taxi came along and I flagged it down. The driver was on his way back to his stand after dropping off his fare. The time saved cost me RM1.

I've used teksi sapu (pirate taxis) for the same fare; it must be some kind of arrangement among themselves. This service is born out of necessity and speaks well of the entrepreneurial spirit in ordinary people, whatever the law says.

Return trip

Then it was time to return home from town. Heart in mouth, hips swivelling like a teenager's combined with some nifty footwork, I cut across the near non-stop traffic to catch the bus home. Foolhardy? I suppose so, but I've always found it hard to resist this challenge.

On the other side, a row of buses were standing with engines running, squeezing the traffic flow into a bottleneck. I picked the bus with the most number of passengers on board. The window opened to a view of a restless knot of people waiting on the sidewalk; some on the wrong side of 50.

There were still empty seats, which set me wondering why this was so. Suddenly I spotted the man with seamed face as he joined the crowd. The look he wore remained unchanged. Perhaps he was born that way.

An age later, the driver took his seat followed by the conductor who looked like another recruit from an old folks' home; however, his thatch of grey hair was thicker.

As the bus pulled out the conductor's behaviour was a puzzle. He went to the end of the bus, doing his duty and concentrating only on the people standing. Then he came to those seated.

My turn and he gave me a strange look when I handed over the fare and told him my destination. I had to repeat myself twice before receiving the change and the ticket.

I disembarked and went up the pedestrian bridge for the hour-long walk home. That blessed bridge was also doing double duty; a resting place for Indonesian construction workers who were fast asleep, the thunder of the traffic below notwithstanding, as I strode past them. In the old days, a bridge like that would have been lined with beggars.

It was only when I was halfway to my house that something clicked in my mind. Those waiting at the Kajang bus stop were short-haul passengers. And it also explained the conductor's confusion at finding me seated.

Outrageous isn't it? Those providing the subsidies are treated like second-class citizens.