by Vanya Vetto
'He had three chicks with him and he still wasn't happy,' I said. Party pooper big time.
He says another friend of his was knifed in the gut in the alleyway that my hotel room faces.
'He died with his intestines on the pavement.'
I tell myself, don't get paranoid.
I tell him I have experience with fat Indians on the mainland.
'But you can never be too careful.' he says.
Too right.
I noticed that there are many budget hotels near 'cut-throat' alley.
It' a criminal paradise, easy to avoid being detected and with access to rich Western tourists, it's the ideal criminal lair I'll be avoiding, thank you very much.
He was a lone musician playing clarinet on the bridge that spanned the Sarawak.
The acoustics in the semi-enclosed area, covered by a white tarp, amplified the woodwind instrument. It wasn't a guitar but a fucking clarinet. I'd be looking out for an oboe next time.
I casually walked up to the cap on the ground. It was empty and the one Ringgit note would go flying on the breath of the cool breeze. It was the tropics but the weather had a balmy feel to it.
I went up to the Malay player, long hair, obviously an artist and handed him the note.
‘Be careful,’ he says, ‘it’s illegal to pay buskers on the bridge.’
He meant it was illegal to busk on the bridge.
He took the money nevertheless after I prepared a stealthy exchange.
So I shook his hand while handing over the cash.
It was all deliciously cloak and dagger.
I returned back after visiting James Booke’s castle. And I gave him another handshake.
‘Enough for a Tee Tarik,’ I said, enjoying this cat and mouse game against the roaming security who knew exactly what was going on. They turned a convenient blind eye.
The music was magical, the tunes rolling off and continuing on the air currents of the river.
He deserved the eighty cents my currency, every fucking cent of it.
I”m not sure what James Brooke would think of the state of affairs, but I was told he was a big fan of Jane Austin movies, and I’m sure he was also moved by the reed music of the clarinet.
I looked over towards the castle. If his ghost wasn’t looking back, I’m sure he’d be touched by the gesture. His love was a Malaysian man which only added speculation to his sexual preferences. And even to this day, the hot Malay muscitians are still serenading the spirit of the white rajah of Sarawak.
‘At least you buskers are better than the ones in Pontiniak,’ I said, adding as an aside, ‘they get very irate if you don’t tip them, they have very expensive drug habits to feed.’
I'm wondering if the musicians are serenading the older Western women who are walking the streets and drooling in droves.
I did see a big pair of tits walk past me outside the old courthouse, built around 1883 and spacious and ideal for the tropics, said a plaque. But for the life of me, I just couldn’t peg the ethnic group of those perfect set of tits. The pair could have been Chinese or Iban. As far as ethnic watching goes, I’m still a novice.
I still needed to test if the streets were safe.
So I mosey up to a security guard who was talking to a fellow Malay on the promenade.
‘It’s safe, lah,’ said the guy without the teeth. Apparently, they only employ security guards with teeth.
And one thing let to another.
He liked Najib.
And one thing led to another.
‘It’s the Chinese backing Mahathir.’
I raised my eyebrows. I didn’t mind Najib. Anyone one who could do conjuring tricks like he did, was okay in my books. I had read Don’t Get Caught, so I knew the score.
The toothless guy continued.
‘It’s the Chinese who want to rule Malaysia.’
They would if Mahathir got into power. He’d have to at least produce a willing puppet for them.
And it won't be Anwar Ibrahim, it will be his son, says the toothless sage.
‘Look at Singapore,’ he continues, ‘you can’t smoke in public.’
Ahh, now I could see his logic. It would be a dastardly deal if Malaysia ever went that way.
Even some of the Chinese Malaysian would stomp their feet in the Singapura of Malaysia.
April or May is the election date. We are all waiting, with baited breath.
Najib seems in control.
‘Mahatir, who is he?’ asked my friend.
A former PM who ruled for decades.
He’s really hoping Najib wins.
He’s my papa when I’m in town, I say.
‘How?”
My friend loved asking the questions.
‘He gave me three months on my visa, how can I argue with that?’
Now it’s back to my Sawarak Laksa.
What is it, I asked the tall and very cute Chinese lady who is wearing a T-Shirt that says: ’ I AM WHERE ARE YOU.’ I still couldn’t figure out it’s meaning.
‘It’s Laksa Laksa.’
She could have been a supermodel on any fashion runway in any metropolitan city of the world. And she knew it.
Laksa Sarawak, I got it, I told her. Man did I feel stupid, just.
But it’s a framing shot that gets my attention. There are features framed on the shop from papers like The Singapore Straites.
I spot the old man in the framed feature. He is hanging around inside.
So you are the famous man, I say.
Five minutes later, he’s still showing me photos, clippings, DVDs.
And old Chinese man walks past the shop to ask the famous man for some cash. He’s carrying a heavy bag on his back and is stooped over.
The famous framer sends the old bum on his way.
I suppose you don’t get famous by handing out charity to unwanted guests from the street.
I noticed another framed photo of the famous man next to Najib.
Oh, it’s papa, papa.
His son realized I had outstayed my welcome and wished me the best of luck with a guiding arm out the door.
It was obvious that his father was on the other side of senility and I had been exploiting it.
I got some nice selfies with him, though.
The old lady is still slumped on a chair at the noodle shop. She’s not moving anytime soon.
Wait, she gets up in a sitting position. She is tired. I really know how she feels.
I’m only a five-minute walk from my hotel. But I’m still in shock about that story on ‘cut-throat’ ally. Don’t doubt for a moment that it didn’t happen.
Now the old lady is throwing out abuses.
It might be time for me to leave here soon. She’s unhinged. I’m in good company.
She’s chain-smoking and has a notepad with scribbles in it. It’s never too late to express yourself, artistically, is it?
I noticed she’s smoking the tax-free cigarettes. God bless her soul. Who likes paying cigarette taxes, I certainly don’t.
You don’t see many foreign tourists smoking local and illegal cigarettes. When they see you with a pack, say ERA, the brand with full flavor, they tend to you give you a nod of approval.
In some ways, I’ve made it.
Even the old Chinese lady mutters something in Hokkien. Perhaps she was saying that I’ve made it too. One can only live in hope.
Opposite me is a Chinese temple. Dam, I forgot my camera. But that shouldn’t stop me from exploring, should it?
I rely too much on that camera and never post the pictures, let alone edit them. I know hard work when I see it.
I was almost swept out of the Sarawak Lhaksa place. So I drifted over the road next to the temple to the QQ Smile bakery. The lady who served me a drink at the other place delivered the drinks from here. She was cute, Chinese, wearing a Batman T-shirt.
‘Are you batwomen,’ I asked, so went the banter.
I’ve just ordered a coffee, so wish me luck folk.
/> It’s a slow day and I’m lapping up the atmosphere before things really go off during the Chinese New Year. Firecrackers traditionally funk me out. It’s always the big explosion after the small ones that I worry about most.
‘You big sissy,’ said Bat Woman. She was speaking three Chinese dialects to her friend, Hokkien, Hakka and Fochou. I didn't follow a word of it.
I’m gonna hang out here more often.
‘No you’re not,’ says Batwoman, ‘ we are closed for seven days and open on two three.’ She meant the 23rd. I was falling for her Chinese ways big time.
‘Dirty old man alert,’ she said as I left. She then pressed the Dirty Old Man button. The siren wailed the lights flashed. I thought she was starting off the Chinese New early.
‘We love dirty old men,’ she says, ‘usually they are the biggest spenders.’
So it was a send-off of sorts. I was flattered.
I”m still here, daydreaming.
I ordered another coffee.
I’m still annoying Aki. She’s being very obliging. Normally I get thumbs down and a fuck you from most of the Chinese. Not this sweet one, she’s even smiling at me.
And the talent walking past here is just unbelievable. Tits galore and tight skirt, mostly dressed in tight shorts, just like Aki, is another reason why I’m not running back to my room for an old man’s nap.
Man, they are killers. Trying to wake up after an hour siesta takes me hours. Better I drink more coffee and enjoy the sights of Borneo.
Aki is wearing a tight pair of denim shorts, a Batman t-shirt and has an amazing grasp of English and knowledge on Asian cuisine, she's proving to be the most delightful company.
I walked up a hill, following a road, till I reached the summit. The Sarawak Club, established in 1883, looked appetizing.
The guard eyed me up. I didn't arrive by a BMW or a Mercedes. The guard even eyed me up more as I dashed over the drain pipe and navigated a patch of grass.
It's not the way you enter the Sarawak Club, is it?
I'd need to do some smooth talking to win the security guy around who had a name tag on him that said he was Paris.
'Very cosmopolitan name,' I say. I was wearing a T-shirt a few sizes too small, that shopping mall has a lot to answer for not stocking XXL, and I was dripping in perspiration. A Chinese gay couple walked past me, stinking of high-end shopping mall perfume.
I was drawing a crowd and was close to passing out. Dehydration was kicking in and all Paris could ask was if I was a member.
Listen here, Paris, who told me he left the army in 2007, without the Australian army, you'd either be communist or Indonesian by now.
Cars dropped off wealthy members, mostly Chinese.
Paris was basically a glorified parking attendant.
'You have other guests other than Chinese?' I asked.
'Yes we do,' said Paris.
Well you should be letting me in for free and making me an honorary guest. I pointed to the cemetery next door. There's a plaque there that even thanks Australian troops for sacrificing their lives. You see the Japs even killed our diggers during World War II. There are cemeteries all over Malaysia with dead soldiers who died at the hands of the Japanese.
'We know,' says Paris, 'haven't you noticed there aren't many Jap tourists in Malaysia. We are still smarting after their little romp around Asia. Only the White Raja can pull off shit like that. Death to the yellow skins who dare tell our Sultans how to run our country.'
I really needed to rehydrate.
I wasn't going to cough up 20 000 Ringiti for a membership so I guess a light refreshment was out of the question.
Then Paris asked me if I was a soldier.
Oh hell yeah, I'll tell them what they want to hear. I get it often enough.
'Served in Afganisan,' I said, 'in signals.'
Signals? he asked.
Yes, you know, cheerleading, pom poms. Someone had to volunteer and it was the least I could do.
That membership was looking less likely the more my words spewed out of my potty mouth.
Opposite the Club was the Planetarium Sultan Iskandar, a ten-story tower.
It's been closed down for three years now, says Paris.
I asked why the viewing platform was shut down.
'Too many Chinese were jumping from the top.'
Not everyone can afford membership.
And I couldn't jump if I even wanted too.
I was working myself into a brave traveler mode, prepared to take the elevator up the top. But it was shut down.
Sarawak, get your act together. Open up the fucking viewing platform and get real.
It's a real money spinner but it's idling and decaying because three Chinese jumped from the top.
See, I was breaking Paris in.
He left to attend to parking and I took out my camera and took a few shots of the exclusive club.
All wasn't lost, was it?
But I was waiting for a hand to pull me by the scruff and tell me to scam.
Paris was still attending to parking.
I was grateful for that. It could have got nasty.
Paris was a big guy.
Unlike me, he was a real soldier.
And I could tell he appreciated the brief military history lesson I gave him.
He really wanted me to dine in the club.
But alas, the days of the White Rajah are long behind us. It's only the Chinese who can afford such luxuries.
I was scampering around the old Raja's castle.
Climbing up the steep embankment was an old fart.
He could have been the ghost of the white Raja for all I cared.
'I'm a descendant of the Stuarts,' he'd later tell me.
So poo haa to that thought.
And I'm the great-great-grandson of the James Brooke.
It was the James Brooke gallery now, though in former times it was his castle where he planned jungle attacks against headhunters and unfriendly Sultans. It was Brooke's way or no way.
A bit like this old fart who was making his way up a steep grassy bank.
I watched.
At this rate, he's going to be tumbling down the hill. I could see that a mile away. The grass around here is a sponge and just keeps on sucking the water in until it's a waterlogged bog, waiting to suck you in and down, back into the mulch.
There's Saint Thomas's church, founded by Brooke. There's the courthouse, another testament ot Brooke's Rule Britania. And the Old Tavern, a frequent watering hole for the old Raja.
This town has Brooke written all over it.
The adulation of him is endless.
I was mates with Charles Darwin's great great grandson. It was a burden to the poor guy who couldn't resist telling anyone who cared that he was related to the father of the Origin of Species. I could tell it got in the way of his true self. He just wanted to be a regular bloke and sow his wild oats.
He actually pegged me as a writer, in the early days, when I was bumming around San FranCisco. They were a kind bunch, always cash in hand jobs at antique stores. How could they resist an impressionable Australian bum doing his Jack Kerouac thing?
By paying me under award wages, that's how. Not that I was complaining. A fiver would always get me a burrito and a drink downtown at the Mexican district.
Chris went onto to write a book. It was ghostwritten. He started the Social Climber's group. He just couldn't get away from his aristocratic ancestry. He wanted nothing more than to be loafer like his famous relative. Surely Charles sponged off the Wedgewoods, I would have.
The book was tragic, in some ways. The love of his life fell to her death while climbing Mt Everest. She also accompanied Chris on a previous trip to the Himalayas where the social wankers set up a dinner table on the summit for their ritualistic dining in dangerous and remote locations.
If Chris had of went with her on her last trip, would he still be around? Or did she go with another man? Was it a case of unrequited love? I was only reading
between the lines.
Was the book Chris's or the ghostwriters'? Chris could never escape the long shadow of his great great grandfather.
The book was a tear jerker.
It was of a man wanting to break free from his lineage.
It was written in his DNA to repeat, 'I'm Charles Darwin's great-great-grandson.'
Now I meet this American bozo who thinks he's descendant of the King of England. Huh, delusion at it's best.
He scoffed at the idea that I was a writer too. Quid pro quo, you say?
Chris' book was never Kindled. It was another reminder of his aristocratic heritage.
He only wanted to break free.
I saw the real Chris.
He was a loner, caught in a web of flattery. In some ways escaping to the mountains was escaping from himself. Yet it always came back to haunt him.
'You really need help,' said John, the American tourist I ran into. He says he's been traveling for five years and that he's seventy years old.
'Yep, got my parents to thank for my good genes.'
I said Levi's was really overrated and that I was a tracksuit kinda guy.
'You really need help.'
He's floating around Asia.
He's going to write a book, he says. He's always thrown two drafts in the bin.
'Rewrites can be good,' I said, not bothering to encourage him.
He was never going to write that book and no one would ever read it if it was published. He really didn't have much to say.
Except that he walked ten kilometers every day.
He was one of those annoying sanctimonious tourists I do my best to avoid.
And trust me, I'm being really charitable.
I first met Chris at the Sydney Convention Center, where we both were waiting tables. To hear him tell me that he was the great great grandson of Charles Darwin only made me silently scoff at the outrageous claim.
It was a letter and a little book by Hemingway that he sent to my San Francisco address that changed my life in some ways.
'You really do write well,' he said.
I've been cursed ever since. Thanks, Chris.
The book was The Snows of Kilimanjaro.
The bitching stopped when Fitri started her shift.
Covered in a hijab, her eyes were green.