by Vanya Vetto
And perhaps a pair of jeans.
I’m here to buy a camouflage outfit.
The terrorists are after me.
Anna, the young Muslim sales lady just wasn’t prepared for an onslaught like this.
She had been half asleep when I entered. It was nearing 7 pm.
I knew the shop closed around 10 pm.
Ruby the older of the two sales ladies smiled as if to say, ‘I knew you would be back.’
I had checked out this section over three weeks ago.
Usually tourists are long gone in that time. They breeze in, see a longhouse and perhaps feed the orang-utans, then they leg it out of here, to their next destination.
They are after me.
Who are after you?
The terrorists.
Eventually, I bought some jeans and a nice dress shirt, they both actually fitted.
Thanks so much, I said to Anna who was happy with a sale. The shop is in the basement and doesn’t get much traffic. She was grateful for the sales.
Also Ruby sold me two cheap belts to keep my pants up.
And she blew me a kiss. Man, she has a nice set of knockers on her.That much I knew.
As I was saying Anna, congratulations. You passed.
Passed what?
She was even more confused now, the poor thing.
The moment I walked into her life, her nightmares began.
The mystery shopping.
From where?
Let's say it’s all a bit secret. I really wouldn’t want to breach my contract by telling you.
I had shown her my passport.
'You aren't anti-Muslim are you?'
You don't go into areas I go by being unsympathetic to them, I said. She still wasn't convinced.
I had gone into the story of a dodgy Malay who has fueled thousands of fanciful words.
I had given her a brief rundown on extremist violence in the region.
I even mentioned Abu Sayyaf.
Apparently I pronounced it wrong because big tit Rudy corrected me.
I had a fucking ball and got a new set of clothes in the bargain.
I was trying to zap the previous conversation by mentioning Mystery Shopper. I’m not sure if it worked but Ruby wasn’t moved one bit. She has met her fair share of crazos and I was one of a long list of big sized foreigners with inferiority complexes who have visited the basement to find clothes that actually fucking fit them.
The Malays are big, so I knew the clothes would be there.
‘Obese, very obese,’ says Anna.
Thank fucking Jesus Christ for that.
Shopping isn’t shopping if you don’t engage.
‘That you certainly did,’ said Anna who tipped me she was off tomorrow.
Was that a hint to see her the next day?
Anna could see my new jeans were falling.
She ran over to a table and picked up a piece of string underneath it.
I used it as a belt.
‘Fits perfect.’
Ruby and Anna worked really hard for this sale.
They deserve a noble prize for their patience.
Malaysians are consummate professionals in the workplace.
I should know, I’ve pushed the limit maybe too many times.
I've come to grab you.
I sat down at your table to grab you.
He bemoans the low occupancy rate.
Only 7 rooms full, not even one third.
He says the hotel has 35 rooms.
And he's come to grab me.
He did give me the password of the wifi.
I'm getting up to two-megabyte downloads.
Drop the price down from 45 to 40, then we can really talk.
I'll even pay a week up front but would prefer to pay day by day.
Johnny is going to talk to his boss.
He's gone back to reception.
Two ladyboys are checking in.
They are the grotesque ladyboys that would be a barrel of fun after ten tall beers.
Johnny went for the big grope of the big ass.
The lady who works at the Malay stall didn't even see it.
I did.
'Knick-knack paddywhack, Give the dog a bone...'
'...This old man came rolling home.'
The least I could do was finish it off.
Johnny is a Dyak.
If I check into this dive of a hotel, the stories will just keep flowing.
He's already offered to take me to a Karaoke joint.
I know what that's going to mean. I pay for the drinks and whores for him.
I'm a few steps ahead on this con.
Takes one to know one,' says Johnny who really wants me to check in.
'I might even get a promotion,' he adds.
I'm sold already.
It's been raining all day. I'm feeling sluggish and I"m sick of that mouthy Iban receptionist at my hotel.
A change of wallpaper might just get those stories flowing again.
I'm going to write this up without getting an anxiety attack.
The thought of a beheading always gets my anxiety juices pumping.
'They could be a sleeper cell.'
What, the Philipino working at that hotel down the road?
'You never know. He could be sympathetic to their cause. He could be spying and feeding them information."
What kinda information?
'Information like you blogging on the subject.'
He says we just can't ever know.
'They kidnap people then take them to the island of Jolo or Sulu.'
So this shit happens?
'Happens more than it should.'
What about that Super Ferry that went down in Manila in 2004, causing the loss of one hundred plus lives?
'It was them.'
Why are they fighting?
'They want their land back.'
But can't they just buy it back like normal people do?
'They have the money to do it. Ransoming brings in big money.'
So are they Sunni, being funded by Saudi Arabia?
'Who knows, but Victor Bout use to supply them weapons.'
Oh, Victor Bout from Lord of War.
'They make money from gun smuggling, kidnapping, drugs, and human body parts.'
And have they been around for a while?
'On 23 July 2014, Abu Sayyaf leader Isnilon Hapilon swore an oath of loyalty to Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, the leader of ISIL.[7] In September 2014, the group began kidnapping people to ransom, in the name of ISIL.’
'Man, you just plagiarised that from Wikipedia.
'Doesn't matter where I got it from, but this is just serious shit worth considering if you ever visit the northern tip of Sahab or decide to visit Mindanao in the Philipines.'
No anxiety attack on this story. But I won't be checking into that hotel with the Philipino receptionist.
He could be a spy, setting up a kidnapping of a middle-aged fat white guy.
So far I've upset every race on Borneo.
The Chinese seem more tolerant of my money.
The Dyak want it.
The Indian are surly as usual and question my politics.
The Iban, on the most part, very receptive.
They love to play catch the ball.
'If you used my real name, I'll hunt you down and...'
...kill me.
I know the drill.
I won't say who said this.
'It's a hot period.'
The elections have been called.
Maybe he felt he was being too threatening.
He pulls out something from his pouch.
'I'm not a bad guy,' he says.
In his hand is a white rosary bead.
Hail Mary full of grace.
I'm nervous and say the whole prayer. It's the only one I know.
He's not convinced I'm not a spy for the ruling government.
But Andy only adds fuel to his suspicion saying I'm a blogger.
I was a blogger.
Past tense.
Andy says there's no need to pull the blog.
He's Malay.
They are the ruling clique in Malaysia and know what's going down and what is considered too far.
He's not even telling me to back off like the Iban.
I'm appeased.
Andy wants to see me continue writing. He knows I'm not razzled and dazzled by the smoke screen and mirrors.
I consider myself a straight shooter.
I love Najib. That's my mantra.
I just can't convince them that I'm here for walking and swimming.
Apa itu.
I'm nothing special, just a dumb tourist, I tell the guy who thinks I'm a spy.
I might be a dumb ass tourist but man, I can still understand some Malay.
Don't worry about that twerp, says Andy, 'he's only a driver and his boss stays at the Riverside.'
The twerp was an upcountry Iban bumpkin and the Riverside is an upmarket hotel and the one I'm staying at is a budget hotel.
So all the talk about being a government official and someone important was just hot air?
'Basically.'
Andy is a Malay.
He says the upcoming election will be a one horse race.
In terms of check mate, it couldn't be any tidier.
'He runs all the important posts,' says Andy. 'He controls police and military. And who is running up against him? A 92 year old who by all accounts can't remember his name and dribbles over his pulled tea and roti canai.'
The Indians and Chinese will be pissed off when he loses.
'There's no pleasing them.'
You had 16 years of a Muslim Indian Malaysian running your country, surely the Malays want a Malay to run it for a change?
Andy just smiles. Then he laughs. He's always laughing at my jokes.
'Bobby wasn't spared in my Google Maps review,' I say, 'the fucker was as fake as all the other Indian Malaysians.'
And the local Chinese adored him.
'He's from West Malaysia and married a local Sarawakian,' says the Chinese at the food court, below the Indian's backpacker lodge.
Andy's laughing again. He loves these kind of stories. My insights just tickle him pink. I'm bebunking the myth that there's no racism in Borneo. Man, I wasn't born yesterday.
Bobby the fucker, I says. He wasn't spared in my review.
Nor was the other Indian joint down the road.
The food was crap and they forced me into buying their shit.
'That's their way,' says Andy.
My nastiness comes out in the reviews.
I tell them I'll give them raving reviews.
But one little slight, it could be their superior attitude, their rankings drop down in my books.
Surely I have too much time on my hands?
'You are keeping the Malaysians accountable,' says Andy, who thinks it can't be a bad thing.
And the Iban?
'Two faced and treacherous.'
I don't ask him about the Dyak. The lifeguard at the pool is a total stand up guy, so their integrity never comes into question.
'And rightly so,' says the friendly receptionist who works the grave yard shift.
I was telling Andy about how the staff at the supermarket were laughing at me.
And how my Chinese cook downstaris told me I should move rooms.
'Why?'
So that no one knows where I am.
And I confronted them. Why were you laughing at me? And why was the security guard looking unapprovingly at my white paint stained green shorts I bought in Butterworth?
Probably because it looks like cum stains.
'They are paranoid,' said Andy.
What, am I paranoid?
I had to make sure what he said.
'They are paranoid.'
And the chef downstairs?
'He's paranoid too.'
I'm all for quick getaways, but having to move rooms within the hotel seems a ridiculous precaution.
I told my cook that the police station was only a few doors down and surely I'm not being followed.
'Only saying what I'd do,' says my cook who as far as he knows, no one is tracking me down. He cooks me up fried noodles most nights -- he'll leave two toothpicks on two paper napkins for me. He's well trained, some would even say hospitable.
'If you were being followed, I'd be the first to know,' says Andy who agrees that there's been a spike of paranoia since the elections were called yesterday.
I never told him about the withdrawals I was having from the flu tablets I took the day before the peek of paranoia.
He didn't need to know that.
In recognition of his good taste and support I high fived Andy.
When I want the low down on Malaysia, I'll always consult my local Malay.
They rarely mince words.
It's against their makeup.
Take this, said the chemist.
They don't want scripts from me.
The more I spend, the more the cabinet door to prescription drugs opens up.
I could feel a cold coming on.
I'd have to hit it hard with some heavy duty tablets before it got the better of me.
I had already been off a week from a bad rash.
I was back in the pool and now this cold threatened to put my exercise routine back into the room, moping around.
I need the sun. I need to feel it on my back. I need to feel the body heating up from a long walk in the tropics.
'Just take this,' she said and handed me two strips.
I read the ingredients, pseudoephedrine, 120 milligrams and two milligrams of something else.
Just one strip will do.
'You can take it now,' she says as I pay up.
My Mac Air decided to spit the dummy too.
It's the RAM on the logic board that's soldered on.
'You'll need to replace the logic board,' said my Mac advisor,' so it would be just as cheap to buy a new one.'
The tablet was kicking in. It had set me off on long loops around the city, trying to find the mall that sells Mac Airs.
If I played my cards right, I could get a two hundred Ringgit rebate.
I felt lost without an operating computer.
You can't do much on an iPad, and if anyone says you can, then I say it's not the fucking same.
On the way to the mall, I drop into a Seven Eleven.
I said many things but one thing I said showed my state of mind.
'Pseudo-fucking-ephedrine, whoo hooo.'
The Malay behind the counter was mouthing 'What The Fuck', no sound was riding on those words.
I continued the hunt for a new Mac Air.
I fuckin' smell, I said, as I entered the Mac store in a high end shopping mall dripping in good old fashioned and hard earned sweat.
Will still serve me? I asked the sales staff who was busy attending another customer.
He sensed the urgency of a sale and dropped the wannabe customer for the 'real' one.
I wasn't fucking window shopping and he picked up on that vibe immediately.
He knew I was transferring funds from one account to another on my phone and humoured me.
He answered all kinds of questions, gave me specks on this model and specks on that one.
I'd ask him the same question.
So far he was doing very well. But there was still another test..
You are all fucking cunts, I said, trying to ruffle a few feathers, looking at the staff and one or two customers
Mac stores always attract pretentious shoppers.
I wouldn't admit to being one, would I?
You are't going to call the police?
Of course they weren't.
Well fuck a duck, bring out that 13 inch beast.
I was listening.
And the salesman said that there was nothing worse than squinting at an 11 inch screen.
The salesman, who was also the manager,
was creaming his pants.
It was the easiest sale of the day.
All he had to do was put up with a loud-mouthed bogan, and he'd be rewarded for the sale.
Eventually, I calmed down after I discovered that a bottle of water was leaking in my bag, enriching my electronics with water that would ensure them a quick demise.
I was bereft. I was coming down. No wonder my Mac Air was dying a slow death.
'Best to separate any liquids from your electronics,' says the Aaron, the Chinese salesman.
I couldn't agree more. But bottles of water just had a habit of draining in my carry bag, despite every precaution.
I was trying my best to dry off my phones and laptop.
‘Take your time, take your time,' said Aaron, who was witnessing a customer who was becoming more and more unhinged by the moment.
From an ebullient smart ass to an emotional wreck, Aaron consoled me by saying that I had one year Apple Care on my my new Mac.
I was quiet and conciliatory. This wasn't the confident redneck that had entered the computer shop. I was now a confused and fuddling middle-aged fart.
Why was I forking out big cash on a new Mac Air?
Because I'm absent minded fuck.
And because I wanted a newer and sexier model.
Bottles don't leak if you screw the lid on tight.
I need to work on that one.
But I really wanted a sexy Mac Air with more RAM. I really wanted to touch the sleek aluminum casing. I had to get my iron intake from somewhere and licking the sleek contours of my Mac Air was as good a place as any.
Man, the oncoming flu was now outgoing and I was now a proud owner of a Mac Air with eight gigs of RAM that wasn't soldered onto the logic board.
So if the RAM went, all I'd have to do is pull it out and replace it with a new one.
My old Mac Air wasn't prepared to give up the ghost.
Slowly and surely, it started reviving.
I can proudly say I'm still downloading porn from Pirate Bay.
I respect that beast.
Every day with it active and servicing a greater course, I look at the 2011 model with adoration.
I crashed the following day and wonderful stories from Paranoia fueled this blog.
Outside the mall, I ran into one of the customers at the Mac store. He was a Malay and was looking for a new phone with his girlfriend.
He just smiled at me as I walked past him with my new Mac.
Mac products have that effect on some people.
He had forgiven me and gave me his blessings with a knowing smile as I trudged back the five kilometers to my hotel.