by Vanya Vetto
Most of the tourists arrived on the foot bridge. How was I to know?
Forty minutes later, after going through semi swampland, through gardens, across boggy wastelands with treacherous gold mine shafts, I eventually made it to the other side of the river with a good dose of heatstroke.
'Not only heat stroke dangerous,' says Thomas, 'but there are still large crocodiles in the Sarawak and they use the swampland to lay their eggs.'
Thomas, a big guy, put out his grisly arms to show the girth of the Sarawak crocodiles.
'Then you got the locals, many drunks and druggie types who would love nothing better than to run into a dumb tourist roaming the isolated kampongs alone. '
I was doubly lucky, said Thomas's wife.
The security guard also told me that rabid dogs also roam the jungles on the other side of the river.
I was triply lucky.
'I'd never go on that side,' said the wife. She pointed to the footbridge that stopped short of the parliament house, about 100 meters short of the new bridge.
I guess I was really lucky.
I told the cashier at the Fort that I knew my way.
Are you sure, she asked?
I wasn't sure. I was cursing and cussing and trying to pull down traffic.
Herman eventually picked me up at the top of Jalan Astana on his motorbike and drove me down to the bridge. He saved me a good kilometer walk on a stinking hot shadeless road.
I even took a selfie with my savior who didn't want any cash for the ride. I had to know his name. It just didn't seem right to leave him without knowing his name.
He gave me much needed hope. Most of it had been swallowed up by dehydration and heat stroke
I even managed to find my way onto the grounds of the largest building in Kuching, a government building. I was getting close, I told Thomas.
'You are lucky Herman didn't rob you,' said Thomas.
It was one of those days that luck was on my side. On reflecting on my outing, even I think I was lucky.
I hit Mc Donalds and order a strawberry Sundae and two apple pies, resolved that when I get back to my hotel room, to write it up.
The girls were happy to see me. One of the staff cleared my table while I was inside ordering the second pie.
'Oh he's a new guy,' said Siti, the hot lady behind counter one who wears green contact lenses.
He's actually studying Communications at Swinburne University in Australia. Is there any hope for Malaysia? I ask Siti.
Not much has changed at my local. They just made me a new Sundae, no questions asked.
It's a full moon outside.
It's an auspicious date for calling an election.
Even the crocodiles are stirring in the Sarawak.
Hay, Michael.
He looked behind.
See you again.
I'm going to miss Michael West.
He was one of a kind.
He lived for the dark shadows and Chinese whores.
He loved nothing better than negotiating a price.
'Two of them staying in my hotel,' he says.
'They not leave Malaysia for two years.'
They also work the lane around the corner from the hotel, which is just behind my hotel.
Michael has returned back to Sibu where he's writing his eighth book in his erotic series.
'She tried to charge me 200 dollars,' I said.
'Her rate is 100 dollars,' he says, ' you just need to negotiate.'
She was in her thirties, quite fit for an old whore and Michael promised her he'd meet her at his hotel after she finished her tricks in the lane.
I've moved to parks now.
It's shady, green, clean and about one kilometre in length.
It's where longevity walks hand in hand with very fit old Chinese.
'If you walk one hour a day for the next month,' says Su, a 76 year old Chinese, who said he used to be a runner - but he gave up, saying he was too small for running and didn't have the leg reach like taller runners - 'then you'll lose about 5 kilograms.'
Day five and I'm sweating out gallons.
'Good,' says Su, gum-less, a sprite old man who on the first day threatened to overtake me on my first foray into Park Life.
'You have good walking technique,' he adds and pulls out a cigarette. It's a no smoking zone. 'Just don't get caught,' he says, 'and if you keep it up, you'll burn the excessive protein.'
He means burn my excessive fat. I love these diplomatic Chinese, they are good for a bruised ego.
His name was Nordin.
Not Nordin Mohammed Top?
He laughs. I'm glad he's got a sense of humour.
He's the maintenance man at the swimming pool.
'Can rent shorts and goggles,' he says.
Will I need to rent a locker for my valuables?
'Good people here,' he says, 'nothing disappears.'
That was about 2 pm when the pool open again after the lunch break.
I was sussing out a place to lose a few extra pounds.
This walking business was getting repetitive, I needed to break it up.
I pulled out my Gree cigarettes and offered him one and told him about my thug life stories from Pontiniak.
'I said I'm not a terrorist, 'but a tourist.'
That shut the thugs up who thought I was trying to fleece down a Chinese shop.
Nordeen liked that one. So I repeated the line again.
'I'm not a terrorist, I'm a tourist.'
I had to go along with the terrorist theme.
Nordin Mohammed Top was the bomb maker from Johor Baru.
He knew that.
Malaysians are famous for all the wrong reasons, I said.
'I'm a Sarawakian,' he says.
Different story then, you are exempt from all the shit that goes on in West Malaysia.
And he truly was.
I'll be back, I say. Nordin had to get back to work, he had water testing to do and general monitoring of the pool grounds.
I had laid the groundwork. Julia, the Chinese cashier suggested I look for double X L swimming trunks. I love their honesty.
I'll be back, I tell her.
I was on a mission, find a pair of swimming trunks. It would take me most of the day but eventually, I'd just rent a pair from the lifeguard.
It would be easier that way, right?
Renting trunks from a lifeguard. I was liking this. Only in Sarawak, I thought as I legged it back out into the tropical heat on my mission. I was going to give Uber, Grab a miss. I'd walk to the two shopping malls that were nearby.
I'm sure I'd be meeting and greeting a lot of people along the way. That's the staple of my profession. Stories must come from somewhere, right?
I was really doing the rounds today and exploring a new neighbourhood.
It was the Karaoke Precinct.
They were all closed.
A Malay guy selling coconut juice was just what I wanted.
He was banished to the road hugging the Sarawak.
I was glad to imbibe in fresh coconut juice.
Time waits for no one, oh there's the other bridge spanning the Sarawak. Too far to walk to in this heat. The naff cap I bought is barely protecting me from the midday heat.
Thomas the Dyak says the local government is advising no one to walk outside during the day.
I'm lousy at following government warnings.
A crew is loading their boat.
They'll be out on the South China Sea later today.
I'm moving, where I'm not sure.
Surely there's another Chinese food court to explore.
I'm always on the lookout for hot Indonesian staff they employ.
It's one of my few joys in life.
This one was a Muslim.
She was wearing tight colourful leotards that hugged her curves, from her tight ass to her camel toe, I was getting my eyeful.
Her name was Daisy.
She was Muslim and wearing a rugby shirt wit
h England written on it.
I was more concerned with her attire south of the shirt.
'Australia better,' I said and shook her hand.
Contact at last.
Every time she bent over a table to wipe it down, my eyes were following those terrific curves.
The coffee was good too.
The walk in the park was off today. I'd have to make up for it in the pool.
I left the Food Court, enough ogling, I was making it too obvious anyway.
But Daisy didn't seem to mind and even came up to me as I was about to leave.
I shook her wet hand again.
I don't mind shaking a wet hand.
She's a hardworking Indonesian with a wet rag in her hand cleaning up after us sloths.
I walked into a shopping Mall. I said g'day to the security guard who was talking to another local.
'Full moon, hay,' I said.
Must be about time to call an election hay?
And fifteen days after the celebration of Chinese New Year, nudge nudge, surely the elections will be called tomorrow.
Nothing like a know it all, hay?
The popcorn smell was rank, it wafted to the second-floor boutique shops.
Expect a visit from the Health Department, I told the guard on the way out.
That popcorn smell is rank.
They only did what they could under the circumstances, laugh.
I was running hot, wasn't I?
I hit another mall. No swimming trunks.
I hit the supermarket, joke with the Dyak at the checkout.
Three hot Indonesian Karaoke girls are buying up big time.
One has big tits and a tiny skirt.
I admire the goldfish tattoos on the cashier's arms.
She's cute in a chunky way but nothing on the Karaoke girl.
I'm minding my own business in the foyer when the three Karaoke girls I met at the supermarket moments ago wonder my way.
The short skirt girl leaves with her friend and comes back to meet her other friend still sitting on the bench next to me.
It's time to go home. The cute waitress from the Food Court wafts by, she doesn't see me, but I'm eyeing up her curves and wave to her anyways.
Then the little sprightly thing bends down to pick up her shopping. I was admiring her big tits but my eyes moved south.
Her skirt shoots up, it's very short anyways, and I get an eyeful of her gorgeous ass and lacey black underwear. She's in no hurry to pick up her bag. And nor does she fuss after knowing I got an eyeful of a lifetime. Was this orchestrated for my benefit?
Of course it wasn't but the timing was impeccable. I wasn't going to look away. I refused. I know a gift when I see one.
My day has been made, whether I want to admit it or not. It could go south anytime now but I'd still have the image of a big-titted Indonesian whore bending down to pick up her shopping bag.
But onwards, I go, I have swim ahead of me.
I hit a coffee shop.
It's opposite the Borneo Post.
I'm with the editor.
My writing is crap, I say, and surely it will need a big 'user-friendly' edit.
I'm drinking roasted beans coffee.
The owner sells the best coffee in Malaysia.
Now that's a claim.
He has tonnes of articles written on him but just doesn't care to hang them up on the wall.
I'm getting a buzz from three coffees.
I thank the editor for the free copy of the Borneo Post. They don't have any native editors.
'Our English is usually better quality than theirs,' says the lovely editor.
I'd have to agree.
And did you know they charge the foreign tourists double at the James Brooke Gallery?
She was shocked.
I hit the pool.
I find the lifeguard.
His name is Jake.
He goes through a bag of swimwear, most likely what has been found in the change room over the years, and he hands me a pair.
It fits.
I rent a pair of goggles too.
All the better for seeing underwater, right?
Do you want to sell me the shorts and goggles outright, I say, after paying him for the rental of them.
Yep, he does.
Twenty Ringgit flies into his hand and we have made a quick deal.
I pass a Chinese mother who is brooding over her daughter who is learning how to swim in the shallow pool.
I notice mum has a big set of tits and her hair is dyed blonde.
She'd be a goer, I think as I take the plunge.
The first lap was ok. I put on my best freestyle performance.
'You swim well,' says Jake, when I reach the shallow end.
He's admiring my sacred tattoo on my back that protects me from bullets, knife blades and the occasional bus bomb.
'I'm not a terrorist, I'm a tourist.'
Now who told him that story, I ask.
Nordin has been talking. I'm apparently a celebrity at the pool already.
The laps are getting slower. I'm sinking. I'm going down.
I'm in now. I'm dead tired. I'm just gonna wallow in the bottom for a while and get my act together.
My food court is sandwiched between two buildings, my hotel.
The chairs are gathered around the atrium.
In the morning, I can look down from my room at the busy little food hall.
Drinks and other goodies are supplied by Hock Ping Cafe.
It's the heart.
The lungs and other vital organs operate on the other side.
Wonton soup, mee noodles, and other goodies.
Madam runs the fruit stall at the front on the pavement.
She moves the fruit.
Think I'll have some pineapple, I interject into my narration.
She has an old and sharp knife that's been cutting fruit for decades.
She tells me she bought the knife from Singapore.
It's German made, she adds, and the acidity of the pineapple has been eating away at the blade. She never sharpens it. That's a knife story for you, hay?
It's hard to keep track of which stall is open and which is closed.
The afternoon shift is a bit quieter after the hectic morning trade.
But they still have stalls operating.
Everyone wants the morning shift.
No one wants to sell in the evenings. Well, that's the philosophy at another food court near the river.
This one thrives. It's on a busy artery of the city. And pretty too. Lanterns light up the street with a soft red glow.
I'm an expert on Chinese food courts.
I've been to my fair share.
But this one runs quite well.
There are no surly foreign workers here.
‘Well I did have a run in with an Indonesian Muslim working the Paki curry house, who gave me those Allah Akbar eyes, so was laying low, they are pretty handy with knives, those extremists.’
Doesn't that tweet by Vanya Vetto say it all?
Yesterday I paid five Ringgit and fifty cents for the best coffee in Malaysia.
I won't be making that mistake again.
Give me the one Ringgit fifty cent cheap and nasty coffee any day.
I enjoy the ambiance of this place.
Pineapple lanterns drip from the ceiling.
'Fresh Kedong Juice,' shouts an advertisement, not failing to add, 'good for detox and lowering cholesterol.'
The old Chinese drunks come later in the evening.
One of them just gets the giggles after his first beer.
There's no reasoning with him.
He's in his own world, lapping up the ambiance too. And harmless. I know he's not going to play Allah Akbad on me, a sobering thought.
I play the old Chinese Tea House game and order another cheap coffee.
The cute waitress, a Christian from Indonesia, is more than willing to take my order.
She looks great in
her glittering jeans too.
Always support your local food court. It's salaries you're paying by ordering drinks.
That's what I tell myself at least.
I ordered a black coffee.
It was a new local with so much potential.
The chicken lady was responsive. She'd regret it, I tell ya.
Her husband would regret it too.
They sicken of me quick smart. I got a good few hours of reception out of them then the door closed.
How much is the coffee I asked? I was inside. The air con was cooling things down.
Two Chinese customers joined in the debate.
'Ice coffee?' the more vocal one asked. The other one remained a passive spectator.
No, black coffee.
We bantered back and forth.
Give me a fucking coffee and let the world keep on spinning.
The worker eventually said it was $1.60.
I'll have one of them.
Then handshakes all around. I was definitely in retard mode.
I pulled off my shirt and revealed my tight fitting undershirt that said RETARD.
The drink is placed on my table outside.
How much? I ask.
The two Chinese have come outside and are telling me it's $1.60.
How much? I'm short of hearing, you see.
The chicken lady says $1.60.
But how much is the coffee, I ask again, bringing her husband into my cruel game called cheap entertainment.
He says it's $1.60.
What?
He says it's $1.60.
Now I ask the staff.
He says $1.60.
The two Chinese are now getting vocal.
IT'S ONE FUCKING SIXTY.
They have never seen a red-headed devil like me in their lifetime.
Sorry, my English is no good, I tell the chicken lady.
I'm fishing for more responses.
How much again?
This goes on for too long. I better stop it soon before the chicken lady reaches for her meat cleaver.
Then I count out my coins, one at a time.
This drags out.
Then I ask if I can drink my coffee now that it's paid for.
'Drink, please drink,' says the chicken lady.
But I want to pay for the drink, how much again?
'It's $1.60, but you have already paid for it.'
I scratch my head.
If that's the case, then I think I'll drink my coffee.
Geoffrey is the owner, a total stand up guy. I'll be back.