Farsiding Read online

They talk their heads off. I turn the volume down.

  But I can still see the bullshit cascading out of their mouths.

  But their teeth sparkle. Some have succumbed to the Television Bleach.

  Politicians don't talk teeth, or cheap cigarettes for that matter.

  They don't need to.

  They have a twinkle in their eyes and a set of teeth that dazzle.

  And funded by the tax payers.

  I have nothing against them.

  And I'm not qualified for their comfy profession.

  I was rejected.

  'Get a new set of teeth and then come back and see us,' was the rejection letter from the Australian government.

  I don't tell my Borneo dentist this and nor does she comment about how fucked up my teeth are.

  She can't speak English so I wouldn't know what she said, if indeed she did comment.

  The needle went right into the tooth.

  The filling cracked in Australia.

  For two months I've been nursing it against rot and decay.

  "The only thing you have been nursing is a cigarette between your lips.'

  Smokers are vile and disgusting people. Smokers and coffee drinkers are even worse.

  We don't belong in the age of bleach stained teeth.

  Our yellow nicotine stained teeth are an affront on their suspect sensibilities.

  When that needle entered the tooth, seeking and destroying those active nerves that like nothing better than a painful party, they packed up and sent their receptors elsewhere.

  They are a jelly like substance.

  That I know from the first root canal treatment.

  I'm getting aches in a place where a tooth no longer exists just thinking about it.

  Much more work to do.

  And I screamed like a new born baby when that needle entered my tooth.

  It never gets easier.

  I was about to throw in the towel and run to the nearest whore house and get fucked up. That's how painful it was.

  My dentist says she'll need to do more work on my mouth.

  Between the assistant and the dentist, they are pulling my face like its plasticine.

  I know it's for my own good.

  Open wider, and when I can't, they stretch my mouth until it does.

  The pain in lower and upper jaw has gone.

  Before, the jaws were aching with pain at the most unexpected times, usually after eating or when I'm about to go to sleep.

  Now it's just the sea of tranquillity.

  The only eruption I had today was a visit to the toilet at the Green Cafe. It's a squat toilet. I missed and it was one of those runny shits. I did my best and returned back to my coffee, like nothing untoward happened.

  Just what was happening last night, I couldn't figure out.

  The usually happy go lucky security guard pulled out his Glock from the compartment of his motorbike, slipped the gun under his belt, and fucked off into the night.

  At least he didn't put the gun to my head or yours, I told the night receptionist.

  The security guy looked like he wanted to use the gun.

  But the way he tucked it under his belt, I'm sure it could easily fall out without a holster.

  I'm off the meds today.

  There's no appointment with the dentist until Tuesday.

  Did I tell you I gate crashed a Chinese wake?

  I thought it was a coffee shop and just entered and sat down at one of the tables, and ordered a coffee.

  To my left, a body was in a refrigerator, lying down, like an exhibit for cold cuts.

  It was a Chinese lady, in her late sixties, with a coin stuck in her mouth.

  'This is not a coffee shop,' said the son of the deceased. 'But you are welcome to as much coffee and fruit as you like.'

  Never one to shun a freebie, I did oblige.

  The massage guy is from Semarang in Java.

  He says a prayer in Arabic and proceeds to apply oil all over me.

  No transitions, you say?

  I needed a massage and this guy just magically appeared.

  I put on a racy Dangdut music number from YouTube while he worked his magic.

  His clients also include the police.

  'Don't have shower until an hour later,' he informs me, through Google Translate.

  I inform him the next day that four showers later, that fucking holy oil still won't rub off.

  'Even better,' he says, 'means it's working even when you are sleeping.'

  Gee, I'm surprised I haven't been raced out of this town days ago. Given, everyone I meet seems to have the touch of madness. Maybe I'm just blending in for a change.

  I blame it on that red pill.

  It's only a pain killer.

  But it's mind altering.

  It kills the pain but it ensures you have a lot of fun with it.

  Fun in one pill.

  It's only a standard pain killer.

  But it's not standard long life gets you thinking.

  I'm going to flush them.

  Too much coffee is bad enough. But taking that pink pill is just too much.

  I'm going to flush it.

  My tolerance for it is really fading.

  I'm going to call off this relationship.

  It's all a bit one sided.

  The pain in both root canals has gone.

  I was only taking precautions.

  Caution is gunna get me in trouble.

  I'm trying to shake off the groggy feeling.

  Should be only two coffees away.

  I'm a bit unsteady on my feet.

  The massage guy called me 13 times yesterday.

  I'm a bit unsteady on my feet since he massaged me.

  He's a giant and threw me around like a ragged doll.

  It's a slight exaggeration.

  But I"m seriously considering in a walking stick.

  The son of the deceased even offered me a stick.

  It was someone else's, not mine I said. He also had a bad knee and bad neck. A walking stick. Steady steady.

  I use one for walking back in Oz. I use it to propel me forward like I'm pole vaulting. The stick is about two meters high.

  It's more a staff than a walking stick.

  It's actually the pole used to clean the swimming pool. It's ideal for propelling yourself forward.

  I might patent this walk.

  It really does work.

  Not only are you working out your legs, you are also working your arms too.

  That groggy feeling.

  That pink pill has a lot to blame for.

  Drinking a dozen or so coffees before going to bed didn't help either.

  It never does. It's alway the price of being sociable, I tell myself.

  If I keep on filing words, soon I might have a twenty thousand word book.

  That's my aim.

  So I'm just filing any old thing. Surely it must be connected.

  'You've been taking pain killers for the last two weeks.'

  Shut the fuck up Bernhard.

  But I have, on an off. Soon all that will be behind me.

  Since the two root canal treatments, I'm feeling much better and don't even get ear or teeth aches.

  Seeing the dentist here in Borneo was a very good call.

  I've been known to make a few, and this was one of those times.

  I see her again tomorrow.

  God knows what horrors my dentist has set aside for me.

  God only fucking knows.

  It's always the first coffee that brings on the sneezing.

  I've written this without coffee.

  Even that surprises me.

  I'm over the waking up and thinking, where the fuck am I.

  I'm grounded like that.

  I know where I actually am.

  And I'm confident the coffee is going to kick in soon.

  Betty was the apple of my eye.

  She’s Chinese and was carrying an eight-month-old boy.

  I
tried to speak to the boy so that I could eventually speak to Betty.

  It worked.

  Betty knew she was god’s gift to men.

  She was born with that gift.

  I was having a Jack Shepherd moment.Don't Get Caught!

  I became a blubbering idiot.

  The cafe was near the large edifice of worship called St Josephs.

  I knew a Saint Thomas once. Fuck, I'd even tell Betty I was a Christian if only she'd give me another mocking smile.

  Only Chinese here.

  That’s really fine by me.

  Are you mumma?

  Betty says she isn’t the mumma.

  See how pathetic I was becoming.

  The young female staff who served me drinks weren’t half bad either.

  ‘Good marketing technique,’ I winked and nudged to Dedi , the Chinese seller of curry chicken stand.

  I’ll be back again, I said.

  If they were pig dog ugly, I most likely wouldn’t be back, I added.

  Mind you, my tastes are wide and varied.

  I don’t think Dedi knew what I was talking about.

  I even let a young boy of ten practice his English with me.

  I played the concerned teacher here in Asia to save them the purgatory of not speaking it.

  If it got me closer to Betty, I’d resort to such low tactics.

  But the food was nice. It was noodles and some kind of Chinese bread soaked in soup.

  I said I’d be back.

  I had no idea of Betty's availability. She could have been the wife of the guy who served me the soup for all I know and care.

  Most likely she was just a customer.

  A big group left at the same time. She was the only sexy straggler.

  I’ll have to tread carefully.

  But getting an eyeball of sweetness isn’t a crime.

  Betty wore these funny shaped jeans with a label that said Gucci and didn't she look fabulous in them.

  And did I tell you about her black silky hair and Chinese killer looks?

  I thought I didn't.

  Those jeans were in fashion when I was in Vietnam over seven years ago.

  It’s really good to see them having a revival, I wanted to say to Betty.

  But she’d just look at me and think I’m a dirty old caught in the head lights of beauty.

  She wouldn’t be half wrong, either.

  Betty Boop is alive.

  She's been reincarnated as a Chinese Goddess.

  She's in Indonesia somewhere.

  And yes, I did meet her.

  Not knowing a language has its upsides.

  Nothing worse than a know it all who speaks the local lingo.

  We hate and we hate them again.

  They are the usually the biggest asswipes.

  I'm talking from experience.

  The less I know what the locals are saying about me, the happier I become.

  The linguists who speak the local language always have a jaunty tilt to their attitude when they are speaking the local language.

  And if we don't speak it, we are the deaf dumb and blind.

  How can we experience what they experience without knowing what the fuck is going on?

  I knew the junky that was following me wasn't happy to see me and make small conversation.

  He had tattoos around his neck.

  I made the mistake of asking him where the barber shop was.

  He knew. Of course he fucking knew.

  He talked about 'happy'.

  A happy phone.

  Did I have one of them?

  And if I didn’t, money would do just fine.

  He mentioned about eating.

  I was only doing my civic duty.

  Even without access to the local language, I wasn't going to give him some money so he could top up on his shabu habit across the river.

  I call it tough love.

  He eventually gave up the chase.

  'Fucking cunt, man I wish I speak English, and then I really could have fleeced him.'

  I was keeping an eye on him.

  When he didn't get what he wanted, I was expecting a knife to appear.

  The last thing I wanted was a knife in my kidneys.

  See, I don't speak the local language but I can still read the situation.

  This really irates the cunning linguists. They don't want us to have fun here. How dare we have fun? We haven't earned it. You can't have fun until you speak the local language.

  Well to that, I say Chicken Shit.

  I had to buy a few T-shirts. While walking to the computer shop, to pick up my Mac Air with its replaced battery, I passed the Orient Hotel.

  Well fuck a duck; it’s the same place my driver took me on my first night.

  They were so happy to see me.

  I checked out one of their rooms.

  Imagine living here.

  On the third and fourth floor are hookers.

  If I lived here I’d be spunking up all my cash on room service.

  Miss Madura was trying it on.

  With her massive hooters, she could try it on any day.

  The old security guard rubbed his fingers, after I informed him of her assets.

  ‘Tight pussy.’

  That’s the reputation they have around Indonesia. The Madurese men are not welcome in Kalimantan, but their women folk are. Bigger the tits, the more they are welcome.

  I sometimes feel for guys. It’s not easy having a set of balls.

  At the Ramayana Mall, a pack of hot girls descended on me.

  I was in serious risk of being raped.

  I bought two cool cotton T-shirts and a pair of shorts.

  Man, if this why people get into the movie industry, I’m seriously considering changing my occupation.

  Medan was surreal and too real.

  The streets were paved with potholes and shit.

  The people carried lumps of cyanide in their hearts.

  The residues of a civil war in Aceh spilled over to Medan and poisoned everything that was good and pure.

  Questions weren't just questions.

  They were strategies for ripping you off.

  'We never know who to trust,' said one Christian Batak I met on a flight from Bali to Jakarta. He's been living in Java for ten years and has no plans of returning.

  He said the truth is a relatively loose term.

  'It will be twisted to obtain one goal, extraction of your cash.'

  It was an insight I really could relate too.

  But Pontianak in West Kalimantan, a city with few pretensions, runs on a principle of good will, with plenty of it to spare.

  'If you have any problems,' says the hotel manager, a Chinese Indonesian, 'I'll loan you one of my security guards.'

  I've got to like a city that prides itself on being one of the hottest places on the earth while saying in the same breath, we don't have any tourist spots, 'but we have lots of cafes.'

  How can you fucking beat that?

  It's always when I'm minding my own business over a cigarette and a drink at an Alpha Mart, that things start to get really strange.

  They were looking at me.

  Three workers.

  They were installing something at the mini-mart, those popular places you sit outside to enjoy the cheap beverages bought inside.

  I think they were tradies.

  One thing let to another.

  The Baron wanted to show me his world. His name really was Baron.

  He pulled out his phone and took a snap of me.

  Then he showed me a video of him and his two other sidekicks dancing at a karaoke joint.

  She had the biggest hooters, he said. I had no reason to doubt the veracity of it.

  Then he called up his karaoke girl, who he said only cost 300 000, or about thirty bucks Oz.

  The price seemed right, and they even had shag rooms.

  I had just seen the dentist and one hole in my mouth was inflamed.

  I was just
happy watching the hot chicks come and go.

  And so were rapacious tradies.

  We really did have something in common.

  I grabbed Baron's number.

  He called me back later and put his hot dream girl on the phone.

  Apparently he had shown her the snapshot of me. She wasn't admiring the lard either, it had to be 'bule' dollars.

  Didn't all westerners have lots of it?

  She was waiting for me.

  She didn't care if I had a mild tingling ache in my tooth.

  She was going to numb it with big tits and lots of Bintang beer.

  This was one night that eluded me.

  There was always tomorrow, of course.

  Every country has an icon.

  The unofficial one in Indonesia is tits.

  'Saya suka susu basar.'

  Not trying to be a cunning linguist, it means, I like big tits.

  And that about sums up my Bahasa Indonesia folks.

  Confirming my suspicion of my theory are the superstars.

  They can't flash their flesh fast enough.

  On TV they are jiggling them.

  They are preening and caressing their hair. Yes, they are getting our attention.

  I'm really not making this up.

  I don't fall into the category of the sophisticate.

  If I did, I'd miss so much, wouldn't I?

  People often ask where is my mind, I say it's in the potty tray.

  I offend. Nine times out of ten, I get a laugh.

  I just can't pick up the local lingo. But when the boys start their potty talk, I'm right up there, with the best of them.

  This has confounded linguists around the globe.

  It's called learning through osmosis.

  I think I better find a nice set of tits and practice my Indonesian.

  The tattoo on the side of his calf muscle was a little place to contemplate and get lost in the void of nothingness.

  A little pagoda, on the top of a high mountain top and a vertical cliff and a few stylised trees that took on the real form of calligraphy.

  I was reading a book once.

  The author was Michael Davidson.

  And the book was called Krystal.

  I went along with it.

  It was gripping me.

  It was when the author entered the neurones of the brain cells of the killer that I realised this guy knew more about serial killers than he was letting on.

  They don't blink. It's not a one hundred yard stare, it's a long blink-less look which can unnerve the supposed saner earthlings.