by Vanya Vetto
Six pm is her knocking off time.
I pay the full price. It's still only 5 am. Mr. Lee comes up to my table to shake hands.
He's lost too much cash from the gambling den down the road.
It's good that the locals aren't sick of me yet.
I tried to buy a few t-shirts at the shopping mall opposite my hotel.
It was a good try.
But XL isn't XL in my country. And they didn't stock any Double X L.
I'm a muscled brute, not a Krispy Kreme fat boy, I tell myself on these kinda shopping expeditions.
I still think fondly of those Crocodile brand black shirts I bought at Ramayana in Pontianak, Indonesia.
They fitted and even had a V neck.
These ones were too fucking small and I'm not going to buy them to find out that they don't fit me.
The male staff was cool with it. I even stretched the shit out of the shirts to see if they might fit like I did at another bigger shopping mall.
The two male staff couldn't agree more.
You aren't going to charge me for the shirts I've stretched?
No no, they said.
They were having a slow day and were amused by my retard antics.
I must have stretched the fuck out of two shirts. They were now Double XL.
After trying on a few shirts I went up to the supervisor, a Muslim woman in a hijab.
I've got a complaint.
I said it ever so seriously and deadpan.
Shock and horror written on her face. Malaysians in the workplace hate negative feedback and I'm here to exploit it.
'Your staff were too friendly.'
A sigh of relief. I pulled this shit off at Pizza Hut recently.
I love traveling. It really broadens your horizon.
Either the chlorine or long walks in cheap polyester glossy swimming pants has done me in.
I've been out of action for days now.
I've tried to get antibiotic cream.
It seems all they have at the big chemists is aloe vera ointment.
It's lousy and burning my skin.
I'm inflamed.
I'm being paid back for pissing in the pool.
Karma is a bitch but I'm copping it sweet. Got a few nice stories out of the pool already. So payback in the form of an inflamed foreskin seems about right.
Normally this shit only happens after a big session on ice fucking a whore in some grotty dive.
Those days are long behind me.
But getting a rash has derailed my exercise routine.
I miss that China sex doll in her white g-string. I miss the one-legged life guard.
I miss the banter and coffees with the Dyak lifeguard.
I miss the walks and talks with 76-year-old Su who says if I don't walk my body will scream for some more.
All of that is on hold.
I found a chemist, a real one, that doesn't sell Wing Wung Chang wonder balm.
Josephine sells antibiotic cream.
'A little oily,' she says. I'm sold. I want a tube.
You don't have any antibiotics love, say Omoxcylin?
'You know in Malaysia you need a prescription for that.'
And it's a load of crock. It only helps the doctors get richer. And if the politicians focused on less looting from public funds then we might agree with their palaver that they are only protecting us from antibiotic abuse.
She was sold. I had struck a chord that resonated deeply with her Chinese soul.
I was eyeing off her stress balls. They'd be good for bouncing off the walls or throwing at people like you would with a plastic spider or snake.
Listen, I've been to every fucking chemist in town, and all they sell is fucking Wing Wung Chang wonder balm.
She was listening.
I went over to the counter and begged.
My rash is clearing up, reached the dry stage, skin is peeling off but I reckon a good hit of antibiotics would do the trick, sending that rash and inflammation back to bacteria hell where it belongs.
'But I might lose my license.'
Any issues, I said, handing over the cash, just tell the authorities to see me at my hotel. I pointed around the corner, in the general direction of my budget hotel.
She handed me one packet of antibiotics.
Make it another one love.
And throw in two of those stress balls.
I've been throwing them at random people all afternoon.
I've been applying the cream.
I'm popping the pills.
And the walking and swimming is one course of antibiotics away.
I better watch myself.
My public persona is getting the better of me.
'I'm here fighting Muslim terrorists.'
The worse thing about that statement to Abdullah, who was cleaning trays behind the counter of Mc Donald's, was that he believed me.
'I'm really interested to read about that,' he says.
And I'm really interested in making a formal complaint. He didn't have a name tag on him, so I gave him a good generic Muslim name. Nothng like keeping employees on the ball with a threat of a complaint.
Siti, the cute Musilm who isn't wearing her green contacts tonight, informs me that the ice cream machine is down.
There goes my Strawberry Sundae. Apple pies taste so nice dipped into them.
I met her on the streets a month back walking with her grandfather, she looked great decked out in the Muslim garb and told me just to call her Siti. She was moved by my story of consulting a Muslim lady who suffered from depression.
I could only offer the advice in the framework of Islam, I told her. A long line was waiting to be served, but I hadn't finished.
'I'm an Imam.'
Are you Muslim, she asks.
Nope I'm an Imam.
I'm still in character.
Dam it, if I can't act on stage, I'll act right here on the dirty floor of Mc Donalds on an island called Borneo.
Siri isn't going to kill me. I like her.
Allah Akbar.
It sounds melodious, the way it rolls off my throat. And the symbolic knife cutting across my throat is just a really nice touch.
No I'm not a soldier. But did you hear about the heroin bust on the Thai Malaysian border? It was 250 kilograms. Doesn't it say it all? Those thugs are using Islam to consolidate their border trade.
This was all lost upon Abdullah. It was definitely above his pay grade.
Siti spent five minutes of her precious time telling me I couldn't have a Sundae because the machine was down.
Now what should I do about that, I asked.
Shall I get online and complain.
I framed it as a yes and no answer.
She eventually cottoned on and said no.
Good, that's settled, I won't go online and complain.
On the way back to my budget hotel, the realization struck me. If she wanted too, she could have called the police and complained that I was blaspheming Islam, which falls under the Sedition Act.
Once the complaint is made, it doesn't get dropped.I'm in the system. I'll be eligible for a whacky on the backy. Maybe ten strokes on the butty.
I really gotta watch that public persona.
Everyone at Mc Donald's greeted me.
'I heard you were in Jakarta,' says Linda, the Iban.
Who told you that?
The Chinese lady.
I'm glad the lady in charge of Mc Donald's Party Department was a lousy listener.
Misinformation serves me very well, thank you very much.
I went to my chemist and bought up.
I bought a big Listarine.
Josaphine wasn't on duty.
But the Chinese lady with heavy make up was the big boss, even I could see that.
I promised you I'd spend big after you gave me those antibiotics.
It was an opener to buy more.
They have really cleared me up, I said.
You wouldn't have ano
ther tube of that ointment.
She hands over a cheaper made in Malaysia version.
That won't do, I say and show her the empty tube.
That's 35 Ringgit, she said.
If it's the real version and made in Germany, I better keep on using that.
By the way I've been popping the antibiotics like candy.
This was an opener to top up on the Amoxicillin.
I had got a course already without a prescription and I was determined to ride this pony past the finish line.
'You should only take three a day,' says the daughter.
I popped a whole strip in one day, I said.
She advised me the more I take doesn't necessarily mean the better it will work.
Could I overdose on them?
Not really, she says.
I got it, I needed to moderate my intake.
Now I know why they are a prescription drug.
I order another two strips.
I pay up.
The two stress balls I bought the other day have given me endless pleasure, I tell them.
'I throw them at anyone who cares to catch them.'
The welts, if that's what you call them, are clearing up and the swelling has gone down.
I'm not pissing through the eye of the needle anymore.
I know it doesn't make sense, but it fits with the theme of having a swollen foreskin and not being able to get a good shot of the toilet bowl.
I might take a walk today.
Three days holed up in the room has given me cabin fever.
I'm only going to take one pill after each pill.
I'm going to play this one straight down the line.
I'm a good listener, really I am.
The wrinkled shrivelled up foreskin has shed its skin.
I've been born again with tender pink skin.
'Just keep your hands off your snakey,' says Ace, my mentor.
And no I won't whack the snake with antibiotic cream, that's just sicko material.
'Well how about moisturiser.'
Might be a good preventative from foreskin rash.
This conversation is really going nowhere fast.
I can see the virtues of circumcision.
'Less feeling,' says Ace.
How?
It desensitises the head.
Roger that Ace, and out.
These kind of conversations before the first coffee are treacherous.
I think I better finish my wonton soup and pop another antibiotic.
'One only,' says Ace who is surprised how I've made it to the big five 'O'.
That's a move in the right direction, right Ace?
He's mumbling. Sounds like a beer Chang hangover to me.
And no Ace, I didn't flash my foreskin to the chemist.
I have high standards to maintain, right?
I've won over Andy.
I call him Anwar.
He had that Anwar sleazy element about him. I'm not sure if he's sodomizer.
I mean if Anwar is a sodomizer, not you. I really had to clarify that point.
'It was first trumped up by Mahathir,' says Andy, 'And it stuck. As far as I know, he's into fucking pussies.'
Didn't Mahathir jail Anwar and now he wants to nominate him for PM if he wins the election against Najib.
Andy smiles. It says so much and so little.
He's from Sarawak.
He said last night there was a drug bust.
'A Malay couple were smoking ice.'
It happened around 7 pm.
The owner of the hotel pays the police 60 Ringgit a day 'plus tips.'
Explains the prompt response of the police who are only four doors down the road.
He told me not to tell anyone.
Everyone knows.
There's a back exit for Malays to enter the hotel.
The Chinese only take drugs at the KTV Karaoke joints which are protected by police courtesy of monthly payoffs.
Malaysia is struggling to be a good boy.
But you can't fight your DNA. It asserts itself in the most peculiar ways.
I tell Alex, a Chinese, late fifties, about what went down last night. He is one of the cooks at the food hall downstairs.
'Were they a Malay couple?'
Most likely, most likely.
He smiled. It's the way things should be.
An old burnt out whore comes up to reception.
'Never met her before,' says Andy.
She sold him a 'hot' e-cigarette for forty Ringgit.
I was carrying my two stress balls. She wanted to play with them.They are red. She wanted me to play with her stress balls, which were the only flesh spots not covered in heavy makeup.
Charge it up and see if it works.
I had a similar vaper and it eventually kicked the bucket.
But still a good bargain, I told Andy.
He's got a heart of gold that guy.
I just hope he can get me a better hotel rate.
'I can't promise,' he says, 'but I'll try.'
Even I know promises are made to be broken.
So no sweat Andy.
It was a reality check.
It hit me as hard as a ballooned up foreskin.
'They pay us to be quiet.'
And if you open your mouth?
'We are silenced with a bullet.'
It was just that plain and simple.
I had waited about a month for this meeting.
The Iban and Dyak seem so passive on the exterior.
They are the hard-working hotel clerks, cleaners, waitresses, and cashiers.
They usually work for the evil exploiting Chinese.
I just like the sound of that.
Considering it was their land, they seem to have a raw deal.
I question the wisdom of James Brooke, bringing the headhunters to the civilized flock.
'Our longhouses are made from concrete now.'
I'm not saying who the name was on the other end of that statement nor his position. It would blow you away if I did.
And most likely blow away our brains, if they found out.
Logging mafia pay off the government who grant logging concessions.
It's an unholy union that has made some people very rich, including the late governor.
'And the temperature has got hotter.'
How?
'The Chinese contractors are cutting down our trees.'
No trees for longhouses, makes sense.
And who would be giving out those contracts?
'The big boss of Sarawak.'
Oh, him. He's lauded as a saviour by some and a crook by others.
Bruno Manser has not been forgotten by the Iban.
He says he just disappeared after paragliding in the Chief Minister’s backyard, protesting illegal logging and the demise of the nomadic Penan tribe.
He supposedly disappeared in Sarawak jungle in 2000.
My source says he's still living with the Penan.
And the crocodiles of the Sarawak River are saying he was a tasty Swiss treat.
That's one folklore that's being kept alive.
The Swiss government declared him officially dead in 2005.
Sounds like a 'be quiet' bullet to the head to me, I say to my source.
Most likely, he says.
They are trying to get their hands on some pristine forest up north.
'They tell the locals to let us log and we'll let you grow more coffee. Money will exchange hands until we are building longhouses from concrete.'
Even the forest tribes were relocated to the towns and cities.
'Fewer witnesses that way.'
And carte blanche for illegal logging.
It's an old and familiar story.
'But we do have a wooden longhouse at the culture village in Kuching,' says my source.
A zoo for near-extinct cultures, wonderful, I say.
The National Parks are off bounds but anywhere else where there's
forest, the trees get logged and processed and floated down the rivers where it eventually makes it way to Kuching to be sold as perfumed wood to the Chinese tourists and raw material for IKEA.
I've seen a few Lamborgini's in town.
You can't afford to buy those from selling chicken for four Ringgit and fifty cents.
I did eventually find that stall. They piled the rice up.
They didn't charge me any extra.
Raji, the guard at the bank, gave me glowing reviews.
'Ask for more rice, no problems, ask for the chicken head in soup, no problems.'
He meant they didn't charge you for the extras.
He has no teeth but to see him rave about this joint just make me curious.
I can imagine him sucking the chicken off the bone and breaking it down with his gums.
He's the only Indian in Sarawak and spends more time at the food court than at the bank.
I saw him at the intersection, while on a chicken shop hunt and he said jump on the back of his bike and he'll take me there.
I can say, it was the cheapest and yummiest chicken around. I even had change to buy a drink.
Six Ringgit chicken and rice dish must be avoided at all costs. It's a crime to shortchange yourself like that when you can go for the cheaper version with larger portions.
I was trying to tell that to the chicken seller near my place. She wasn't going to budge. Well, I'm budging over to this place every day for the one reason it's better value.
'Does it make you happy eating our chicken?' asked the bubbly Chinese waitress.
It sure does. It makes me feel on top of the fucking world.
He's still alive.
Who is still alive?
Bruno.
It's a belief the Iban cherish.
He could be the new James Brooke to believe in.
'And he could be still living happily in the jungle with the Penan.'
Making babies and hunting wild boar.
Sounds idyllic.
I had to get out of my hotel.
It would do me no good.
Am I ever going to get out of this room?
It wasn’t quite a song.
But the question spurred me to action.
Get out now before you merge with the fucking furniture.
I needed to get some clothes in the Extra Large section of a clothes shop in a small department store across the road from me.
I knew they would fit.
I had Buckley’s chance at the normal department stores.
Here was my chance to upgrade to a collared shirt.