by Vanya Vetto
'But just be very careful if you go to Semporna in Sabah,' says Mel, who thinks I'll love the snorkeling there, or the hot Sabah chicks, or perhaps even both.
A few islands north is the base of the Philippine terrorist group, Abu Sayyaf. Fuck, the Australian government should give them visas. They'll be washing dishes and earning big bucks and thoughts of kidnapping young girls and rich Chinese Malaysian and cashed up Western tourists will be an 'old' thought.
'But have army patrolling the pristine beaches,' he says, 'but still must be careful.'
Thanks for the tip-off buddy.
'We love James Brooke.'
'He united us.'
'He stopped head hunting.'
And piracy?
The Malay guy who I'll call Frank nods.
He's nearly crying.
Such an outpour on a white guy kinda blew me away too.
'He's in all our hearts.'
I was wondering why I was feeling so welcome.
'Borneo is 1000 times better than Peninsular Malaysia.'
I couldn't argue with it.
It's mostly Christian, then Muslim.
And not many Indians.
'We like it that way,' says the guy who sells Viagra at one of the busy street corners in the tourist area. He is Malay but has married an Iban lady.
This place is really speaking to me.
They don't particularly like terrorists too.
They abhor them.
Frank sees me smoking duty-free cigarettes that are brought under the counter.
"Why not, if it's good for the big boss to siphon off billions of dollars, then all the more reason why we should indulge.'
He was smoking Parkway. I had just bought a carton of it.
He's not a government agent.
Nor Fatima and her fiance I met the other night.
Borneo has its way. And they are proud of it.
If you are white, you might actually genuinely be welcomed.
We have the 'White' Raja of Sarawak to thank for that one.
And I'm really indebted. Trust me I am.
Frank works for the tourism board. And Fatima is in charge of issuing I.D cards.
I told him I found a hotel that doesn't charge me the ten Ringgit GTS tax.
'Good for you,' he says. 'It's another unnecessary tax imposed by our government.'
He says the tax initially covered local tourists too, ' but we kicked up a stink about it until they quickly dropped the idea.'
Meanwhile, an announcement is going to be made at the end of Chinese New Year celebrations, falling on a full moon for the date of the upcoming election.
How do you know?
It's floating around in government offices, says Frank, who loves nothing better than a good bitch about his government.
I really didn't need the ring, truly I didn't.
I hardly wear the fuckers but the guy selling them was from Sumbawa and a showman.
It was a simple design, a green stone placed on a simple gold colored ring. None of those poxy fake diamonds encrusted around the rim of the ring, spoiling the showpiece.
Before I go on, the Shabu-heads paid their respects. I felt like the godfather at my local, a table outside a Seven-11.
The stuff you pick up along the way.
Maybe they don't see too many fat foreigners sitting outside a 7-11 at the crack of dawn.
They were grinding their teeth and asking me the usual questions.
A pair of fresh foreigners bounced past me on their morning walk. I'm not going to pass judgment. It's a good place for morning walks. Nothing beats a brisk walk along the Sarawak River, right?
I'm still smarting from my long walk yesterday.
I got the ring after the guy knocked down his price for the Malaysian punter. I jumped in and flashed my cash. I knew a bargain when I saw one.
The speed freak also paid his respect and told me about his life as a roving tattoo artist.
He told me about his roamings too.
He was off to the Philipines soon.
I wished him luck, guilty by association, I hear they even bump off tattoo artists just for the sheer fun of it. And being a Malay tattoo artist, your head would fetch a higher price.
He spent most his short time chatting with me telling me the best ways to get rid of unwanted tattoos. He was happy he got rid of the one of his ex, on the inside of his arm, near his wrist.
You see, I was still waking up. See, I'm still waking up.
I'm being choice with my words. I really don't want to offend. I was lucky to get out of Indonesia. Trust me, I did contemplate an Indonesian jail. Imagine sleeping without a pillow. It must be dastardly harsh.
My man from Sumbawa, the next island east of Lombok, stuck around for a milky tea. I was offering. He showed me some cool tricks with two thin pieces of metal that he wet with his mouth. I watched those fine pieces of metal dance to the magnetic impulses of his hand on the table.
I even managed to rouse a few flickerings of the excited metal that he wrapped back up in a piece of paper which he put back in his wallet. A party trick for another day was safely packed away in his bag of tricks.
It wasn't magic. He was emphatic about it.
'But a real pussy magnet trick,' he says. 'It gets the girls dripping.'
An hour passed.
I have no idea what he said. He has no idea what I said.
Well I had a spare hour to kill, didn't I?
The tattoo artist buzzed off.
He seemed more fucked up after speaking to me.
I have that effect on some people. But the ring seller from Sumbawa wasn't fazed for a minute. He had me pegged the moment I set my eyes on his fake stones.
A dabbler, yes. He had me pegged.
I'd flash the ring around and look like a local and it would open up a window of other stories.
He had me pegged. One charlatan to another, we both gave each other a high five and a nod.
Until tomorrow, boss...
The Air Asia flight had it's nose up on landing. It looked like we were about to do an emergency ascent. Here we go, it's going to break in half. Isn't it suppose to have it's nose down, I asked the Chinese Malaysian captain.
'We had 15-knot side winds, so I had to make a special maneuver.'
I heartfeltly thanked him. Keep up the good work and make sure those planes don't come down. The first and last plane to go down was off the coast of Borneo. It stung him.
'I fly Air Asia more often,' I say, 'keep it safe.'
And then to the cute Chinese flight attendant, in her tight-fitting red uniform which showed lots of curves and legs, 'I filled out a survey for my last flight. They asked me why I chose ten. I said the chicks were hot.'
She giggled.
The male flight attendant giggled too. He was camp as a row of tents. Aren't they all? But apparently he wasn't into fatties who wore black dirty T-shirts that were obviously a size too small. They couldn't wait to get rid of me. They'd let Borneo sort me out. They had done their bit and wanted no more to do with the talkative customer, who outwardly, looked stone sober.
The Sarawak River looked like a python that had just gorged on a Borneo Rhinoceros. It bloated out and narrowed, then bloated out again.
Just what was going on was anyone's guess.
I tried to get another stamp back into Indonesia once I checked out of the country on the Pontianak side. The immigration staff looked on at me nervously. They manned the two booths that handled all international passengers.
They weren't prepared for such demands and it was then that I decided to take the flight.
The guy working the X-ray section tried to deny me taking on an ice coffee and water which I bought inside the terminal at inflated prices.
"Drink there,' he says, pointing at the seats next to the International lounge.
Saved by the bell.
'Boarding Mister,' says the immigration guy, who was wearing a fat ring of Borneo red origin.
I was only trying to say keep up the professional work to the X-ray staff. But he got hostile and almost threatened to check my bags again.
But it was a win for Flashy. I walked towards to the plane with my drinks.
There was no way I was going to bin them or get indigestion by chugging them down.
This was one small victory, but one I was very proud of.
I tell people I'm a travel writer and they don't believe me.
Cool, hey?
It was all very cloak and dagger.
I was minding my own business and thinking Graeme Green thoughts as I eyed up the big titted natives.
I joined a guy who was hogging up a park bench.
I love imposing myself.
He was cool with it.
I don't believe in finding an empty bench.
The occupied ones are far more interesting. You just never know what conversations are going to crop up.
I was playing Forrest Gump at a park bench.
There'd be big and tall stories, and everyone one of them true.
I pegged the guy as an Indian Malaysian.
We were on the promenade of the Sarawak River.
He was on holidays from Kuala Lumper.
He'd be returning in ten days.
I forfeited my trip back to Pontianak.
I had explored that town for all it was worth. Any more exploring, I might find myself with a slit throat. I was reading the signs. It said fuck the laptop you left at the hotel and the mouth guard you ordered to stop you grinding your teeth in your sleep. That could wait until next time I called into that mosquito-infested port.
I pulled out a smoke and oggled at the skirt.
There were Malays, Melanaus, Chinese, ( Indians, didn't see many, presumably scared of poisoned darts and headhunters), Ibans, and Bidayuhs who paraded their wares on the promenade.
It was lit up with fairy lights. It brought out the moths like me and that dirty old Malay sitting next to me. He told me later he was Malay.
I'm sorry, I said, I still have so much to learn.
So romantic, I thought. I was smitten by the place.
I was in the heart of James Brooke territory, the 'white' Rajah of Sarawak who ruled the island from 1841 until his death in 1868.
I'd been working on my British accent, in the hope that the locals saw a bit of the white Rajah in me. I wasn't here to liberate the island of pirates. Just throw away your bras, and I'd be happy.
Then the Malay pulled out his phone, after we chatted for a while, neither of us looking at each other, only focusing on the talent on the promenade, and showed me a picture of the Bugis Pirate himself, dining with a very sexy lady.
Surely it's photoshopped, I asked.
He nodded in the negative.
I looked around.
Who is that guy sitting next to you?
'Just my friend.'
This picture confirmed my suspicion of what most Malaysians quietly think, at least east of Peninsular Malaysia. Even the immigration guy I spoke to about the state of affairs didn't like that upstart whose bloodline ran from the Riau islands.
I told the immigration officer about my cavity search in Medan in Indonesia.
'Bad form,' he said.
Even the lady doing the X-ray didn't want to give me a cavity search after I put my bags through the machine and spilled my beans for anyone who cared to listen. The young backpacker, I pegged him as British, waiting in line to get stamped in, failed to join in the mirth that I was sprinkling around in generous amounts.
No doubt about it, it was a piss fest and a half.
'Have a nice trip mister,' said the lovely customs lady who looked Dyak to me. She was eyeing me up, waiting for me to grab her number.
I walked off, saying to the Malay guy I met at the park bench I'd hope we'd see each other again.
Further up the promenade, I stopped to talk to some guys dressed in military fatigues. They were volunteers.
Then the Malay walked past me and slyly prods me in the ribs.
I promise I wasn't talking about you.
I was. I was telling the volunteers, the one who looked like a pig in fatigues, that this total stranger asked what was the name of the hotel I was staying at.
To that, the volunteer who had the porky features asked me where I was staying.
I said it was none of your business. That was when the shadowy Malay figure walked past me.
I excused myself and followed him.
We had more to talk about.
But the well had dried up.
Maybe he thought I was a government spy.
Or maybe I should stop reading Graeme Green books.
Either way, Borneo is ideal for an intrigue or two.
They are really open to outsider's opinions.
I'm just an empty vessel, needing to be filled up I say.
Besides, what I say could change in the next sentence. I've learned to be slippery and to slide off a conversation to the nearest exit.
Self-preservation is a potent force.
I even had the official scan me for Malaria. It was a heat sensor camera.
Apparently I was in the big clear.
Linda had bloodshot eyes.
She knew I was a soft touch.
I landed in a city clueless.
Always a good start.
She was a big Malay girl, early fifties, missing two front teeth and a sadness that she covered well with an inner fortitude born from years of hard living.
She hangs out at the Seven-11 most nights, looking for a free meal.
Eat it all up, I said. And have some of mine. She even smiled for the camera as I took a photo of her on my iPad.
The other night she was sleeping in the chair. It's the table I usually write on in the early hours when the local zombies come out to play.
She's harmless.
I've been avoiding her for the last few nights.
She'll humbug me.
'Buy a rose,' says the lady who sells noodles at Chinese food court, two doors down from 7-11. 'Charity.'
Charity my fucking ass.
She knew I was mucking around with Rose, a Dyak, the other day. And she was playing cupid again.
I have no one to give it too, I replied.
And why don't you buy a rose from the deaf lady? You fucking hypocrite, I wanted to say.
But I'm an empty vessel. Fill me up. I'm not here to cast judgment, it would be counterintuitive to this writing gig.
He said also be careful if I travel to Pontianak, in Indonesia.
'They'll pickpocket your wallet without you even knowing it.'
I love these kinds of shops where you can buy tax-free cigarettes, get a free consultation for medical issues and advice on the folk across the border.
Nothing beats it. And it only cost me one buck for the tube of toothpaste, which I later used to brush my teeth.
I didn't have the heart to tell Asung, I think that was his name, that I had spent three weeks in Pontianak. He said don't fly, 'catch a bus, cheaper.'
I'll be tapping him for more free advice when I do a cigarette run later today.
I caught a Chinese holy man on my camera at this shop the other day. Asung thought it was funny as fuck. He's an encouraging kind of guy. I would never have entered his establishment if it wasn't for this mad Chinese, who was wearing a loincloth and a g-string and a t-shirt held together by a few threads, showing off his ribs.
I had been following him. He'd put his hand out at the busy intersection and cash would be handed to him. It's Chinese New Year after all and people are obviously feeling generous.
As quick as that, cash in his hand, he beehived Asung's shop to buy cheap cigarettes.
I know because I was stalking him.
There's a lot to be learned from the locals, there really is.
Being in the know is a big part of self-preservation.
I never take the local advice for granted. It's usually earned and worth paying attention to.
It leads to the back of a Malay coffee house that has its back doors open to the public.
So even on my side of the street, it's potentially dangerous.
The riff-raff can and do make a quick escape that way.
They won't be going through the back exit of the Chinese Coffee House, though, it's shut for seven days over the Chinese New Year.
The fireworks have begun and scared the shit out me. Terrorism flashbacks and all that jazz.
There's a promotion going on at the local laundry says the owner of the iconic short time shag hotel.
'Only two of the rooms are reserved for that,' says the owner. They are on the reception floor. The walls are painted white and the white Formica counter is minimal, and behind it are a few certificates and a simple price list for drinks in bold stencil font.
I'll be hitting the laundry tonight with one of the staff who will wash the hotel sheets. I've got a few crusty T-shirts to wash and dry too.
An old Malay couple checks out of the two-hour shag room. She's gotta be in her sixties, and Bang (uncle) isn't any younger. Good on her, I tell the owner, that she's still shagging at her age.
He says a tourist was around the back of the hotel at the Malay warung where I had a milky tea just the other day when a drunk Malay came up to him.
'He was a big guy like you. And the Malay asked if he could take a selfie with him.'
When the white tourist agreed, the Malay pulled out a curved knife and slit his face, 'from his mouth to his ear.'
Did the guy manage to steal anything?
'Only his camera.'
He says the problem is that most offenders usually know someone in the police force so no one ever gets arrested.
I said it sounds like a familiar tale.
He warns me not to walk at night on the promenade, 'east of the Brooke monument. Too many drunk Malays who love nothing more than stealing then knifing a tourist.'
I had been loitering around there for the last few days. I was wondering why I received hostile looks. I told him how I saw a Malay guy sitting at a table with three women, and how he gave me hostile glances when I said a cherry 'g'day' to the girls.