I know she hates it when I get like this. Determination generally is a desirable personal trait. But a couple of notches up the intensity scale, you have something approaching reckless obsession.

We had arrived after midnight by train at Butterworth, the mainland Malaysian port. The train was many hours overdue and we were tired and hungry. Uncertain, we'd joined the general exodus and, luckily, a short ferry ride later, we reached our destination, Penang.

The journey to Butterworth had been a monotonous combination of glacial aircon and demotic jungle. There was little to do but read, and little to read but our faithful Lonely Planet guidebook. One section titled “Snake Temple” grabbed me. A sacred place populated by poisonous vipers subdued by holy incense. I read and reread the section. It was irresistible and I was fixated.

Late next morning, I pull up outside our hotel where she is waiting. She glares at me uncertainly. I'm leaning back Easy Rider-style on the battered grey scooter that I have just hired.

“Time's a wasting. Hop on; let's hit the road.” I'm playing the seasoned road knight.

“Gez, you're a spaz!” she huffs as she dons her gold helmet and climbs aboard. It's already been made clear that she'd much rather be shopping in air-conditioned comfort than heading off on my little quixotic adventure. I jerkily and slowly join the traffic, which is mostly other scooters, with the occasional larger vehicle.

Snake Temple is located just off the main drag between Georgetown and the Bayan Lepas Airport. Brimming with guidebook confidence, I'm under the impression that this is little more than a dirt track and this rather large temple will be difficult to miss.

I'm wrong.

One minute, our world is a porcelain sheen of tropical sunshine and halcyon days: old men sedately pedaling trishaws, street vendors, and satay sticks.

The next minute it's EIGHT LANES of rush-hour carnage.

There are no other scooters in sight. Car horns are tooting and truck drivers gesturing wildly. I accelerate unsteadily to keep pace with the traffic. Suddenly, we're on a mammoth over-bridge; there's no way off.

“Where are you going? How fast are we going!?” she screams.

I looked at the speedo. 120km/h. That doesn't seem right. I tap the gauge. It leaps off the clock. She doesn't need to know this.

“Hang on!” I grit my teeth and focus on surviving the whizzing, tooting, squealing traffic.

Eventually, the over-bridge and concrete barriers end. I relax and notice scooter lanes that had been missed earlier. Slowly, I start to get the hang of scooter driving Penang style.

Twenty minutes later, having failed to sight Snake Temple, we arrive at the airport. I give a staunch but friendly nod to the loitering security guards and head back the way we came.

Suddenly, as we enter a roundabout, an alarming mechanical thwack-thwack sound starts coming from the front wheel.

“What the…?” she gasps.

The front wheel locks up and we head straight toward the triangular traffic island. The concrete monsoon spoon drain sports a monstrous shin-high lip. I start to pump the brakes and brace for an inevitable head-over-heels collision.

“Hold on!”

Then, magically, at the last possible moment, my steering returns. We avoid the curb by centimeters. Our ears are ringing with the constant screech of failing machinery as I pull over gently to the shoulder of the road in front of an open air restaurant. Patrons look on idly with vague interest.

Kneeling down, I bluff mechanic smarts and inspect the front wheel. I look under the suspension forks. I wiggle bits and pieces. Nothing. I bounce the front tire up and down. I slowly push the scooter forward. Nothing. I bounce the front tire up and down some more. We both jump on and take off slowly. Nothing. Apparently, I've fixed the problem, or it’s fixed itself.

About an hour later, we'd seen some nice suburban neighborhoods, some not so nice slums, lots of waving school children, and we’d run two stop signs. We’ve even seen a few temples – but no Snake Temple. Meanwhile, thick clouds have been gathering overhead. It starts to rain.

Okay, it's time to get practical. We stop at a run-down BHP service station. I'm determined not too leave until I have infallible directions. A middle-aged customer with a sizable belly overhears me questioning the clerk. Excitedly, he pulls his petrol receipt from his pocket and draws a remarkably detailed map.

“Where you from?”

“Australia,” I reply.

“Ahh, I lived in Melbourne for ten years. Go Richmond!”

On the forecourt, I take my jacket off and pass it to my unimpressed partner. It's raining gently but the temperature still is hovering around 30 degrees. It's bearable apart from the danger of sliding out on the now greasy road. I cut the speed back. We find the main drag and head back toward the airport.

Finally, we see a battered canvas sign advertising “Snake Temple.” The building that it's attached to is a collection of mismatched corrugated iron and building code violations.

“Finally!” she huffs.

A few local kids sit nearby drinking from bottles of Coke. There's a collective sigh as we walk toward them. They sense we're lost and are braced for another round of obtuse tourist questions.

“Is this Snake Temple?” I ask uncertainly.

They burst out laughing. One stands, walks a little, and gestures. I follow and look. There are paved steps leading up to a courtyard and a mostly hidden cluster of brick buildings.

“Over there. This is Snake Temple restaurant.”

We walk up the stairway and, finally, there is the formidable temple. Admission is by donation. Photos cost. We pay, hold the snakes, get our photos, and leave. Outside, she turns to me.

“You know, that wasn't what I expected. I'm glad we came. Snakes are cool!”

I'm exhausted. All I can do is smile. I wheel the scooter onto the road, she jumps on, and we head off toward the slowly setting sun.