Farsiding Read online

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  I listened to my inner god of self preservation, Get

  I listened to my inner god of self preservation, Get

  I listened to my inner god of self preservation, Get

  I listened to my inner god of self preservation, Get

  I listened to my inner god of self preservation, Get

  I listened to my inner god of self preservation, Get

  I listened to my inner god of self preservation, Get the fuck out of here.

  I really didn’t need any prodding.

  The Balinese taxi driver on the first night caught me when I was vulnerable, and drunk and horny.

  He wasn't going to let me forget that I said I wanted him to take me everywhere.

  The island is dead quite and he thought he had found his super retirement fund.

  So did the whores.

  I put a stop to it all.

  Maybe Borneo would offer reasonable prices.

  Remember, we aren't in the West so I don't see why the prices for whores should be in that category.

  Mind you Batam, south of Singapore, is bold in it's demanding of higher prices.

  No tourists on island but higher whores prices, I told Mario, my new Batak friend.

  The Batak are a group of people who inhabit the Lake Toba area in Sumatra where they flagrantly disregard Islam with their open air meat markets offering prime pork cuts.

  'We like our pork,' said Mario, who was listening attentively to my rant that extended the duration of the flight to Jakarta.

  His English was superb.

  And I was feeling on top of this travelling game.

  An hour later, I'd get a connecting flight to Borneo and would arrive around 5 pm with an extra hour up my sleeve from time zone hopping.

  The first leg, from Bali to Jakarta, I sat next to Mario, a logistics officer who was in Bali for business.

  We were flying Lion Air.

  He said at first he was from Java, but when I mentioned Medan in the conversation, he came clean and said he was a Christian Batak.

  Today he wasn't going to play the Javanese card on me.

  I woke up early, still feeling burnt all over from a swim in the hotel pool. I had no idea the tropical sun was so powerful.

  It was a cloudy day but the rays toasted me to a golden brown.

  All I needed was the butter and jam.

  The early rise came with a great idea.

  I pondered how long would it take to pack my one bag.

  I then put it into action, saying I could always unpack it and go for a swim.

  But once the bag was packed, I was ready to fuck off.

  I could hail a taxi outside and be at the airport in twenty minutes.

  I could meet the sexy sales rep of Lion Air.

  I could admire her smile and mouth full of braces.

  She could ask me where I want to go. And I could point at a map and say how about there. Then I’d ask how much, and she'd tell me, then I’d pay with my credit card and she'd give me another sweet smile and before I knew it, I was moving again.

  I had escaped the gravity of the Balinese gods and the sales rep would give me an even sweeter smile and say that I should visit Sulawesi, where she is from, after I do Borneo.

  Man, I'd love to do Borneo, then her, I thought.

  The weather has everyone coughing Borneo way.

  It's the humidity, said the guard.

  That might explain why my teeth are running hot and cold, one moment pain free, the next a dull throb.

  I refuse to self medicate myself.

  I'm riding with the punches.

  The Dayak on the plane really enjoyed my Madura story, about nearly being arrested for gate crashing a hot spot between the Sunni and Shiites.

  I only wanted to see a buffalo race.

  'No worries,' he says, 'if they do that shit here in Borneo, we'll eat them.'

  He gave me his number and said to give him a call if I'd like to meet up and have a meal.

  Should I call him?

  He was sympathetic.

  And it confirmed his suspicion.

  'They are dangerous people.'

  I said they should have been sent to Sumatra where they could fight it out with the Muslim Bataks, who like nothing better than a good knife fight after the slightest provocation.

  On the way into town, signs, spaced every ten meters, saying 'No Nacoba.'

  Is that some kind of biscuit, I asked my Christian Batak driver, a small thin man, late thirties, fond of his clove cigarettes and techno music.

  'No, it's narcotics.'

  Is there some of it around here?

  He points across the Kapuas River, where we were having a coffee at the riverside, the kind of cafe you sit on a mat on the ground, next to a low table, and eye the noisy cats off, thinking how can you kill them without being noticed by the Muslim owners.

  'Many drugs over there.'

  I raised my eyebrows, a half hearted effort.

  His English wasn't so good and misunderstandings were easy and the last thing I wanted him thinking was that I was into narcotics. He was now raising his eyebrows.

  'Don't do it, don't do it.'

  I put my hands up. It's not illegal to drink coffee is it?

  He smiles.

  His teeth are nicotine stained, just like mine.

  He's getting the message that I'm not into Shabu, that's shipped from Malaysia via the river systems that flow across the two countries porous border.

  Well I hope he thinks that.

  Fuck, my gums are flaring up.

  I'm thinking Tramadol.

  That will be the end of me.

  And Mr. Batak is thinking Karaoke girls.

  He's being paid to entertain me. I've been flying all day and I'm a stink bag. The humidity has soaked me and there's my own biosphere circulating around me, a cross between a sewage and wet shower.

  'You stink!"

  He didn't say that. They never say that. Not when I'm the one doing the paying.

  He gives me the run down on the rates of the local whores.

  For once I wasn't fishing.

  'Over there,' he points , as we drive past a place with black tinted windows, 'only 100 000 for a girl. If you don't like, can choose another one.'

  Does he think I'm a sex tourist? I have no idea what would make him think that.

  He smiles.

  'No, I don't think you are sex tourist." I'm smiling now. "If you were, you would be chugging beers at some go go bar in Pattaya.'

  This guy has character. I think I'll be using his services again.

  I met two Americans yesterday at a bank in Borneo.

  They both don't like Trump.

  But before that revelation, it was just three fat white guys happy to meet each other in the far flungs of the world.

  'Why don't you like Trump,' I asked, we didn't have time to waste, and I wasn't going to waste this opportunity on pleasantries,' he's a true American, pissing off everyone left right and centre. You gotta admire a guy like who just doesn't give a fuck what other's think of him.'

  I threw in it's the American way, for drama. An Australian telling an American about American values probably didn't go down well either.

  I wasn't knocked out by either of them but I could they were raging at my insolence.

  'What's the alternative,' I said, stoking their rage, 'Crooked Hillary?"

  One of them was from Arizona, a young fat thing.

  The other from New York, and old fat thing - they had to be father and son.

  I'm one to talk, that's why I'm talking.

  We were getting along swell.

  They were waiting for a transfer and I wanted to withdraw some cash from the ATM to pay for the repair of the broken screen on the mini Ipad,
which I'm proud to say is still rocking it's way around Asia.

  Michael, who I called Dave, was the older one.

  He didn't like me getting his name wrong.

  I really understood.

  I wanted to tell him that I had so many names that I've lost track of who I am.

  He was looking at my daggy shorts I bought in Butterworth, the ones that have netting for the balls.

  He said before the election, he had a slogan: TRUMP TRUMPS THE ELECTIONS.

  It was highly original.

  He said he also had one for the Democrats: TRUMP IS TRUMPED.

  I was doing belly laughs on the floor of the bank.

  I eventually got my cash out.

  The young guy from Arizona had that distinct Michael Moore stench to him.

  Michael took the fall better.

  But I could see he didn't like smart asses.

  I'm not bad at squash said Michael who said he was from Florida. I pegged him as a New Yorker.

  I’m sure Michael Moore lives there.

  We joked about the wall, send those wet backs back.

  They are Mexican your way, I said.

  Of course I know they are from Cuba.

  Father and son eyed me off.

  They had pegged me as Australian.

  I wonder why.

  Oh Cubans, cheap cigars, right? When you have nothing to say ,stick with the stereotypes and ram them every which way.

  Isn't ignorance bliss?

  They left the bank quietly like two church mice.

  Had I offended their sensibilities in the far flungs of Boreno?

  I hope so.

  I mentioned the word of their god, Obama.

  He is that squeaky clean, non stick kinda guy who graduated with honours in sticking to the script.

  I've never been a script man. Nor is Trump.

  Ad libbing and offending a few along the way is only human.

  I have to give it to my new American friends, they didn't compare Trump to Adolf Hitler nor comment about his fat ass.

  They were semi-enlightened in an age of Social Media Hysteria.

  With the Trump wave splashing on the shores, I turned to the banking staff and started calling all the young female staff, Ibu, or aunty.

  Then fits of laughing hysteria broke the tension.

  The sky didn't fall. Life continued on, irrespective of whether we liked Trump or not.

  I thought that was really neat to know.

  Mt. Batak is opening up.

  He's not as innocent as he lets on.

  He's obsessed with getting me a whore.

  If it's Borneo's Magical Mystery Tour you want, I'll give his number.

  Really, all I wanted to do was hit the river, take a photo of the bridge, and perhaps drink a coffee.

  Instead, he stopped at a hotel called the Orient.

  Huh, is there a coffee shop here. It didn't look like it.

  I was genuinely dazed and confused. I'm not use to this much commitment for finding a whore.

  'Only open until 10 pm,' says my driver, a diminutive man who chain smokes anything and loves techno music.

  'Ok,' I said, gelling with the idea.

  We climb the staircase, two floors later, I make the connection. He's showing me the local whores.

  You never can be too careful.

  The hotel is haunted. The first two floors are empty, discarded, beyond it's overdue date.

  I was expecting the same for the whores on the third floor. Was I in a for a suprise.

  'Very dirty place,' says the Christian Batak, who seemed to have lost what little morality he was born with many years ago.

  He slipped into a conversation if I smoked dope.

  He mentioned Shabu the day before.

  He'll swing both ways, depending on my wants and desires.

  There's a large poster, on a stand, in my hotel foyer, that says 'No Narcotics.'

  It's got me thinking, there could be a problem here.

  I suppose the execution of drug users on the spot isn't much of a deterrent.

  'You like this girl,' says my cultural guide.

  The doors of the hotel rooms are open, and the working girls are standing in the doorway.

  One girl , who obviously did well at English in school, yells out 'Hello Mister, how are you?"

  I'd be better in your embrace.

  She was a hot and feisty little number with light skin, a Kalimantan trademark I'm told.

  Five minutes later, after doing the tour of the third and forth floor, her door was shut.

  She was entertaining.

  Miss Java had the biggest tits possible on a frame of a dwarf.

  "You like big susu?’ asked Mr. Batak, and who doesn't.

  Just for admiring her amazing fun bags from the safe confides of the corridor was enough for me. She'd be expensive, I thought and worth every fucking cent.

  Other subdued whores were offering me double the price of the locals.

  It was still dirt cheap.

  'Here very dirty,' said my driver.

  You haven't seen the chicken farms in Bali then.

  He couldn't believe it.

  Nor could I until I visited one.

  The parking guy said he could arrange a special delivery to my hotel.

  Then for the next half an hour, Mr Batak is driving on the outskirts of town looking for a hotel his friend recommended.

  It's getting very tedious.

  I don't like the look of those banana trees, must be getting close to the jungle.

  He eventually finds the hotel after stopping to ask anyone who cared to help and sweeping the back roads for anything that looked remotely like a shag hotel.

  It's a Spa & Massage place, only one whore working tonight, I'm informed.

  'I must remember where it is next time,' says my driver who only found out about this place from his friend half an hour ago.

  The Orient was winning by a long shot so far, but it seems my driver thinks I prefer to paying higher prices.

  Not sure where he got that idea from.

  On the way back to town, he cruises the back streets for a meet and greet the whores, mostly sitting on motorbikes with their dodgy pimps nearby.

  I put down my window and a lady from Madura gets off her bike and begins her sales pitch.

  She's a lone wolf and has no hanger on pimp.

  I like that.

  'Madura famous for tight pussy.'

  I was almost tempted.

  She wasn't making this up, they really are!

  Edward runs a little warung in the Red Light precinct. It’s a low key street with coffee shops and a few karaoke bars around the corner.

  I hand him my ipad and he plugs it into his sound system.

  It's Jason Durelo hour.

  Then he hands me back the ipad and says it's time for evening music.

  Techo, and very loud.

  I'm beat.

  It was an eye opener.

  Things are pretty open here in Borneo.

  Being a predominantly Chinese city, I wasn't surprised.

  I didn't get a whore.

  My driver's esteem of me undoubtedly dropped.

  This wasn't an expose on the sex industry.

  This was an expose of a Christian Batak whose name means The Blessed One.

  Amen.

  I hope you aren't getting sick of me.

  Not that I really give a flying fuck. Considerations aside, I'm writing.

  It's never easy. One word at a time.

  Fuck, the foul disgusting tasteless orange with rock hard pips broke my tooth, fractured it and splinters are stabbing my gums.

  I'm going to have to see a dentist now.

  Nothing like a broken tooth that's causing unnecessary pain to help you act upon it.

  The pain killer cost me one dollar and fifty cents, my currency.

  It was fucking cheap.

  Eat first, said Kenny.

  Eat what?

  Just eat some bread, an
ything, so that the medicine doesn't give you ulcers.

  It wasn't Tramadol, that stuff gets you high. It was something else, and it was oh so much more subtle.

  Firstly, it killed the pain. Secondly, it got me off my fucking tits. I do wear a training bra, don't you know.

  Kenny is my computer guy. He's in the process of ordering me a battery for my Mac Air.

  The ipad Mini is working. I got a new screen for it.

  Kenny recommends a dentist.

  I've been walking all day and I have mother of rashes between my thighs.

  But I'm going to see a dentist.

  Shards of teeth are dangling and other shards are lancing my gum.

  The dentist prods a bit, pulls out the teeth shrapnel.

  Oh, a cavity. I look up, the customer I saw waiting in the lounge area is inside the dental clinic. He's acting as translator. His name is from an Arthurian legend.

  It's not Augusta.

  No, it's not Thomas Aquinas.

  But man can he translate.

  'You have cavity, blood flow in gums no good, she'll do a root canal and a few more treatments.'

  The dentist must have asked him to translate.

  So much for patient doctor confidentiality.

  But I'm not complaining.

  The female dentist, Miss Nenneck, has pulled out a long nerve from my tooth - she even shows me, this is my own B grade movie. That's what's been causing you pain, she said, through the 'free' translator.

  Arthur, was that his name? Edward. Fuck, I can't think.

  Man, those meds are kicking in.

  She injected me with something. It had to be novocaine.

  I'm almost tap dancing, and ibu (auntie) the assistant, is decked in her hijab, and is coughing and spluttering beside me, and the dentist has one instrument pried against my lip.

  It fucking hurts.

  'Hay gentle on the pressure, love,' I say.

  She eases up.

  I'm tap dancing out of the clinic. The pain is gone and won't come back.

  There must be more trouble.

  I think I'll follow it.

  Ibraham, that's his fucking name.

  I don't travel.

  I travel to dentists.

  They'd sooner have you die in Australia than treat you for a reasonable price.

  I want a politician smile. They all have nice teeth.

  Talking heads have nice teeth.