by Vanya Vetto
Why, I asked, you have a month's rent and deposit of my money in your pocket and I only stayed four days.
It seemed I was the victim here.
He was quick to take the cash too. He loved that bit.
But he even enjoyed racing me out of town even more.
He loved that bit.
He hated Australians.
I don't think Australians particularly liked him very much either.
'The fucking no good deadbeats. They check in for a day or two then come back here using our wifi. They are nothing but drunk crooks.'
I was liking Paul, an ethnic Chinese, instantly.
He’s the night manager at the hotel.
I might not share his opinion on the drunks, many I chill out with, but I liked the spunk that went with the bald-headed night clerk.
He tells me Cindy turns off the wifi at a certain time in the evening to stop the drunks from hogging up the hotel's wifi.
I found this all so intriguing.
The politics of the hotel was opening up before me.
That's when you know you have outstayed your welcome.
'It's when you know you are one of us,' says Paul who is wearing a pair of bottle-bottom glasses.
He just wanted to rant and rave about the mafia clientele all night.
They are small time online gamblers.
It's the quiet type you gotta watch out for.
She's a lady, biggish, neither ugly or pretty, who sits at one table all day long with a piece of paper and a pen.
She's taking bets.
She's quite discreet about it.
She's doing more to ruin people's lives than Andy, Mr. Lee and Patrick who like a little dabble at online gambling.
I thought Paul was a bit harsh. But now I know why the internet is down.
'I've been aware of you,' he said when I asked him if he was Paul.
Well I've been aware of you too. And it's been a pleasure to meet you.
But to be honest, I had no fucking idea he was that good. Surprises are popping up all over the fucking joint.
I met two of the other receptionists yesterday.
They were a riot.
I'm not locked up yet, so not only were they funny, they were trustworthy.
'It's a one-horse race,' said Andy.
That's the elections summed up in a sentence.
'He has all bases covered.'
That was another sentence.
It's not hard competing with a doctor long past his expiry date. But you just never know. He's shy of 100 but he's slinging those arrows every which way.
I really need to keep my political opinions to myself.
Did you hear about that yacht found in Jakarta, funded by that personal superannuation fund, 'it had 250 million US dollars stowed away in it.'
Confiscated by authorities.
Nope, hadn't heard of it Patrick, who is proving to be a wealth of cloak and dagger inside information.
I always find them, one way or another.
And did you read about what the Sultan of Johor has got to say?
I have now. It's really heating up. What other nasties will be pulled out of the hat, I'm thinking.
'It would pay,' says Patrick, who only drinks barley water. 'That way no one has anything on you. Just play dumb. Dumber the better.'
Sound advice, as always, I said and then he disappeared back from where he came from.
'You'll see him down the road tomorrow,' says Andy.
Andy calls me the red-haired devil. He's a wealth of information I'm tapping into.
My hair's fucking brown, I say.
Cockfighting in the Philippines, you say. Now you got my attention, Andy.
Andy, Lee, Patrick, Paul, could all well be figments of my fecund imagination.
And so is Frank, Jack and Vanya too.
Everyone is the big boss.
Hi boss.
Everyone is my boss.
But I'm the big boss.
It works at certain locations.
Don't try it on some surly Muslim from Indonesia who wants us all praising Allah.
It just won't work.
I'm onto my second coffee.
The joints are still aching but seem manageable.
Cindy is the big boss.
No, she says.
There's always someone who is bigger.
That little bitch roaming the tables is the big boss.
Man, for a cat, it has a set of lungs.
It's cruising the table for scraps.
It’s teats are almost ready for milking.
Kittens on the way.
Don't fuck with the big boss.
As far as cats go, this one is tolerable.
The dog came to visit me.
Out of all the human faces, it recognised me.
I have that distinct smell.
After patting it for a while, Abdul shooed it away.
I had to wash my hand with soap.
It stunk.
I'm glad I'm not totally forgotten.
Once I move hotels I move headquarters.
There's never going back.That's only courting trouble.
Let 'em all think I've moved on.
Works all the fucking time.
I ordered a black coffee.
It was a new local with so much potential.
The chicken lady was responsive, a young bubbly thing who rents out stall space in the coffee shop.
She'd regret it, I tell ya.
Her husband would regret it too. He was a bit of a bozo. His only motivation was money and bumming a cigarette off me. I didn’t speak Chinese and he pretended he didn’t speak English, so we were at loggerheads at the outset.
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.
Then I ask another guy who is ear shot.
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 tell him I'll be back, ‘provided I’m black listed.’
Business is qu
iet, says Geoffrey and apparently my Ringgit is welcome.
Even Geoffrey is questioning the young Chinese who sell chicken.
’They aren’t the brightest.’
Apparently, I said.
Heaven forbid what he thinks of me.
‘The Chinese couple hate you.’
Just as I thought.
They started out well selling chicken but over time, took too many days off. Even Geoffrey was getting pissed of them.
‘They only think about their trip to Australia.’
And they don’t care about the customers.
That much I got.
I'm always ebullient and somewhat chirpy after a swim.
The coppers were standing outside the station, wearing their guns.
Felix seemed fair game.
I slowly eased into it.
Thanks for keeping me safe.
The men in black smiled.
They are Sarawakians after all.
Did I tell you that I was fleeced down by coppers in Kuala Lumper for not having a passport on me?
'Can't do that,' says Felix, ' but best to have your passport on you.'
I have mine in my bag, would you like to check it.
'No problem.'
The other two coppers were getting embarrassed and said no problem as well.
Are you sure? I could just show it to you now.
'No need,' says Felix.
They aren't taking the bait.
Would you like to see if my visa is valid, I offered?
'No problem,' says Felix, 'no need really.'
Are you sure, I said, I could have an overstay.
They were sure they didn't want to see my passport or check my visa.
They are good coppers in this part of the world.
I salute them.
Mr. Paul hates the gangsters.
Since I learned the word ‘red devil’ in whatever language they speak in, I’m hearing it more and more.
Do they not like me?
Isn’t ignorance bliss.
The incentive for not learning a language is to never be offended.
It’s a code I abide by.
I saw Mr. Lee the other day at Geoffrey's Cafe.
He has 13 children and was once a sea captain, shipping raw material from Sabah to Kuching, up to 1000 tonne, says his sidekick Andy.
I’d believe it.
He was making his way upstairs to the Baccarat table.
Nothing passes me.
I enquire. I want to know. I need to know. I also saw a few whores walking down the steep steps and a few Chinese who should be in bed dying.
Andy and Mr. Lee are giving me a wide birth.
Do they know I’m writing about them?
Goodness me, what would ever give them that idea?
Must catch that flight.
Surely it will be taxing and tiring.
Why did I get that early flight?
Always a first.
Two flights and I'm in Manila.
I'm getting rusty going through airports and boarding planes.
Even I know I'm losing my edge.
It's time to live out airports and planes. Five hours later, I should land in Manilla with another country under my belt.
I can only write so much about walking and the Long House.
Fancy a story about walking the streets of Manilla?
Right, I got you covered.
Mr Lou was sound asleep behind the counter.
It was an invitation to take a photo.
It's raining outside.
The roads are flooded.
Seems a good time to go.
The twentieth April crept up on me.
It's time to act.
You have timed things to perfection.
Don't miss that flight.
You'll regret it like that flight to Borneo you missed two years ago.
A reminder to self, take the far side once in a while.
I wasn’t going to take the flight.
I couldn’t be bothered packing.
I was entrenched at the Hoover.
But I happened to tell Tomas the receptionist to wake me up about 4 am.
I tried to download the Grab app but nothing was working.
I’d stay here and walk for a few more months around my loop.
Knock knock.
It was the receptionist and it was 4 am.
I thought if I could take a quick shit, swig a few mouthfuls of Coke that had been lying around my room for a few days, then I could manage the packing pretty easy.
I was doing well. I thought maybe I could take this flight.
I asked Tomas if he could call me a taxi.
He said he could.
Things were falling into place.
I had slept four hours already.
It was better than taking an early flight after staying awake all night.
I was ahead of the game.
The taxi arrived.
I thanked Tomas, who is Iban. We had really got on well lately. I also said goodbye to Mr. Lou earlier. This was one hotel I was leaving on good terms. That made a change.
Two whores were coming in from off their beat outside my window.
‘See you tomorrow,’ said the fatter of the two. She was drinking a can of Tiger. Her friend, the bigger titted of the two, looked on at me longingly, thinking what a wasted opportunity.
I had no idea they worked the late night shift.
It wasn’t the kinda send off I was expecting either.
I'm in the land of Jesus.
And Mary.
And whores.
And Manilla.
We can talk about the assault of the senses.
But I won't.
For those of you who have ever experienced Jakarta, Manilla won't intimidate you one bit.
For those who have never been to Jakarta, pop a valium.
Manilla isn't Medan.
I'm not sure which city is more psychotic.
I'm not here to psychoanalyse Manila but if I were, I'd say it's like being released from a mental asylum with another thousand Jesus freaks. It has that intensity about it.
Bearing witness to Manila isn't for the squeamish, be warned, the city must be right up there as a magnet for attracting the weirdos, both local and foreign.
Even I'm not sure if I fit into this place.
I'll have to hold my tongue. I won't be too flippant with my remarks.
Because Manila is a knife-wielding gangster with a bruised ego, and caution will be a good friend of mine.
My coffee, fresh from the 7-11 grounded coffee machine, went splash, most of it filling up my bag, some of it sloshing on my black shirt and black tracksuit pants.
I was eyeing off a hot chick outside the convenience store while trying to put a few purchased bananas in my bag.
I got distracted.
I walked back into the convenience store to make another one, using the same cup that was now contaminated from the dirty streets of downtown. By now the coffee in my bag started leaking out of it and percolating onto the floor. I pulled out my wallet and passport, they weren't wet and pretended nothing was out of order.
But the once pristine clean floor that was now muddying up before my eyes told another story.
My flip-flops were drenched with Arabica. I was sliding in them. That also contributed to the mess I was making on the floor from the leaking bag. I also smelt like a drenched barista, another flavour added to my foul and soiled clothing which I was forced to wash today.
Mikee, the female staff, followed me with a mop. There were no complaints, you are making more work for me, dirtying the floor, just an honest attempt at cleaning up the mess before other customers slipped over the muck I had brought into the convenience store.
I paid up for another coffee that was now fresh and steaming.
It had to be the sleeve, it wasn't big enough, so the coffee cup slipped out of it.
Even Mikee was looking more appealing.
She wasn't grumpy like the night shift who have to deal with drunk tourists, stoned street kids and fucked up whores on the make. That might explain their grumpiness.
On the way to my hotel, an old lady was begging for small change.
I wasn't in the mood.
Getting befuddled can invite losing your passport and wallet, which I was holding in one hand, and the freshly purchased coffee in the other.
I could feel the whole street looking at me and sizing up an opportunity to take the wallet that was fattened up with an ATM withdrawal last night. A passport would be a bonus.
Luckily the pickpocketing street urchins were still sleeping on their cardboard boxes, otherwise it might have been another story.
Fuck off bitch, that was the look I gave her. And didn't she moan that I wouldn't give her a few pesos? She can moan some more and I really won't be offended.
Sitting outside my hotel drinking the coffee, I was visited by every con man in the city who were flogging belts, sunglasses, fake labelled bags and phones and Kamagra jelly.
The iPhone Ten was a joke. I had to hold back a laugh as the tout got more and more aggressive with the realisation that I had caught him out. At least the iPhone Six they sell on the streets of Malaysia look like the original.
I bought a belt and a fake pair of Raybands.
And I sat back and watched.
TJ, the dyke manager came outside and we chatted a bit. She outlined every scam in Manila, saying most of them happen around here, and:
'Don't bring a girl back to the hotel,' she advises,' they'll spike your drink and steal everything.'
It's a common story on the streets of Manila.
She's not the first to tell me.
Meanwhile, walking out of the 7-11 with a new hot and steaming coffee, the hot chick looked at me, and if looks could speak, she would have said, 'LOSER.'
I still can't forget the expressions on the faces of a small group of ladies who were sitting around a table enjoying their coffee and looking at me gibbering away, while Mikee was following me with a mop. They were too polite to say that I had fucked up their morning coffee.
The dollar I lost on that spilt coffee was worth every cent of it, I told a middle-aged lady who was here for a Milo. After my recommendation, she would consider trying the coffee next time.
She was being polite too.
I miss the simple days of dropping into the Long House and ordering a cheap coffee. It took out all the complications.