Farsiding Page 5

  I've since learned, what they were trying to tell me was that their river is called Kapuas.

  So there aren't any Papuans living here after all.

  Do you think I could find Muller Mountain range on Google Maps?

  It didn't exist.

  The river's journey ends on the west coast into the South China Sea where I was yesterday.

  See, I make the effort to travel.

  It's a big effort, and one I'd prefer not to make.

  But sometimes I'm in a selfless mood.

  The delta is rich and fertile and the mangroves love it.

  Conservation is an obsolete term here.

  You could napalm and nuke the mangroves, and they'd grow back again.

  The mangroves host many species.

  One I came across was called Homo Narcissistic Selfie.

  They are friendly bipods dependent on gadgets to pursue their digital head hunting.

  If you don't oblige to a selfie, they'll nag you until you do.

  He's kneading the fuck out of that cancerous growth in my back.

  'Blood flowing.'

  I'd fucking hope so.

  Some people do Palates in the morning, I have a message.

  Ariff is an imam, and when he's not giving me Arabic lessons or blessing my Borneo Red ring, we are rating tits.

  'Want blue movie.'

  Not yet Ariff, the last thing I want the hotel staff to know is that I'm doing morning screenings of Brazzers.

  I keep on telling the hotel staff that I'm a fucking retard.

  The only one who calls me a genius is Ariff, the massage man.

  I think I might extend his hours from one to three, he always says the right thing.

  Last night a guitar man came up to me.

  He was carrying empty packets of cigarettes in his pouch.

  I let him talk. He was fried.

  Not fried enough to deny me permission to take a photo.

  I was talking to two law students.

  'Man,' I said to them after the weirdo left - I did give him ten cents, my currency - ' it doesn't get any better than this.'

  I hunt the cafes looking for weirdos. They find me too.

  It's the cheapest entertainment around. It's just watching for the signs that they are going to crack. That's when you need a quick access to the front door.

  When I left, I heard the law students talking.

  'Man, that guy from Australia is one fucked up guy.'

  I smiled.

  Hey, I'm not insensitive to compliments.

  Security is paramount in these third world backwaters.

  Now that’s just dam culturally insensitive, isn’t it?

  I always call Borneo 'high civilisation'.

  It sounds really cool. Borneo has 'high civilisation’.

  It just rolls off the fucking tongue.

  I bought an adaptor next door to the hotel run by the Chinese.

  It worked and the next day I went back to compliment them.

  Before I could say Jack Robinson, a slug started pushing his way into the shop, giving me a foul look.

  'Is this guy annoying,' he must have said to the Chinese owner.

  A few other thugs, or slugs, were following him.

  Before I could even say Robinson, about five of them were in the shop to give me a good fucking hiding.

  The Chinese owner said I was just some dumb tourist, and a retard to boot.

  The thugs streamed out of the shop. But I wasn't appeased.

  Hay, I said to Chief Slug, I'm a tourist, not a terrorist.

  I learned that one from the Afghanis. Usually works like a charm.

  'No problem Mister.'

  It was no problem until he made it one.

  Did he think I was asking for extortion money? Did he think I wanted to enter his turf?

  Who knows.

  Yesterday I ran into the slug and said my obligatory Hello Mister, trying really hard to roll my tongue. He was courteous and even smiled back.

  I"m wondering why the change of tune.

  'They know Ruddy is head of security at my hotel,' says the manager.'Even the gangsters respect him.'

  I bet they respect his Glock too.

  'Made in Taiwan,' says Ruddy. It was a plastic gun but still shot out slugs as effective as a metal casing.

  But there was no protecting me from the rat that attacked me at Chinese cafe.

  I only made it to the steps of the toilet when it leaped across the room and tried to take a chunk out of my foot.

  I was wearing flip flops but instinctively kicked.

  It was the day that I didn't get rabies and the first time I had been barred entry into a toilet. It was far less sinister than being locked in a toilet, which was a few days after the rat attack.

  Now that really unnerved me.

  But a good hammer will knock down any door. Wonder if there is a law against carrying a hammer. Doubt it, this isn't the West where they'd charge you for carrying an armed weapon.

  I have waking, and I don't mean sleeping, nightmares, that everyone wants to lock me in their toilet.

  I'm disturbed by the experience of being locked in the toilet for thirty seconds.

  I banged and banged some more.

  The Alfa Mart staff was standing patiently outside and released me from my prison. He couldn't see what all the fuss was about.

  The fuss was if he was in the shop and no one could hear me banging, I would have been stuck for a long time.

  The windows had bars on them too.

  I know they'd come looking for me.

  The last thing they needed was a fat foreign tourist snooping out the back.

  They needed their customers in the shop buying their products.

  I bought a couple of packet of cigarettes.

  It was agreed among myself and the two staff I was better being a consumer than a prisoner.

  They promised never to lock me in the toilet again. We had made a truce, there and then.

  Back in the safety of the air-conditioned mini-mart, I gave my best performance.

  'You saved my life,' I said to the staff who opened up the toilet.

  His name was Mustafa and he was Muslim.

  Once I got that part right, I continued.

  I nearly embraced a couple of aunties in the shop and pointed to my saviour, 'he saved my life. Inshallah. He saved my fucking life.'

  Sure, I was hamming it up. I was free, and the air was sooooo fresh.

  Not even a Glock can protect you from those West Borneo rats that apparently love nothing more than playing possum before they pounce on you.

  Rat attack, it does happen, West Kalimantan way.

  I'll never take for granted a trip to the toilet.

  I'll have my guards up, making sure my foot is keeping the door ajar to prevent it from being locked outside.

  When I take a piss, I'll also be alert for any agro rats.

  They don't tell you about that in the guidebooks.

  Consider this free and gracious advice, it might save your life.

  I'm easing up on the massages.

  I'm feeling worse, not better.

  He's too much into porn.

  'Happy, I like.'

  But if we get caught, it could spell doom and gloom for the both of us.

  There's one more dental appointment then I'm free to move.

  I'm putting on my thinking cap.

  Stimulation, where, when and how?

  It comes from the most unlikely places.

  I don't feel good ridiculing my massage man.

  He's so innocent in many ways.

  And he's not getting me the results I need.

  I'm contemplating sacking him.

  'Go back downstairs and find more customers,' I said, after his lacklustre performance.

  He's being distracted by the porn. It's not good for him.

  He's losing his focus.

  I made sure he ate a plate of fried rice before he began the session.

&
nbsp; It's my free breakfast.

  I can't eat anything until I've had at least four coffees and double that figure in cigarettes.

  He was shy. His guru was with his wife and told his former student to eat.

  Malu-malu. Shyly Ariff ate.

  He's a great guy. But I've bled him dry and I feel there's nothing more to write about him.

  'Please, I like blue movie.'

  I type in Google Translate that we need to be very careful.

  It comes down to one thing, I don't like sharing my porn. I didn't have the heart to tell him that. And I was worried I'd be receiving a poke in the back as he massaged my neck from behind.

  Kuching, north, or a flight out of here.

  I'll decide soon.

  If I just hang on and not piss anyone off, I might be able to make a more civil departure.

  Here's to hoping.

  'Complications make us cross.'

  They sure do Dharma.

  And what’s your friend’s name again, it’s Anton, isn’t.

  'No it’s Wanto.'

  Can you spell it for me? I say, but I don't tell him I'm really tone deaf.

  Their pronunciation isn't my pronunciation and that only adds to the cluster fuck of misunderstandings.

  ‘W-A-N-T-O.’

  Dharma spelled it clearly, his English was above average for Borneo standards.

  That’s right, I said, it sounds like Anton but it’s Anton beginning with a W.

  'No, it’s Wanto, not Anton.'

  Anton is the Chinese owner of this cafe.

  That explains my confusion.

  Complications make us cross, I said to Dharma.

  It was such a good line, I wanted to use it as soon as possible.

  That two-hour midday sleep had me in another time and darkness.

  I was dropped off outside a Mc Donald’s with only my computer chords.

  It wasn’t a good place to be without a coffee fix, so I woke up. It was only 3 in the afternoon, time for a quick coffee.

  I anticipated the traffic crossing the road in quicker time than expected - put your hand up like a traffic cop, and lip sync, I'm crossing the fucking road - and headed to my local which is across the road from KFC on Jalam Siam.

  I managed to knock 1000 Rupiah off the price of the coffee, now I’m paying local prices.

  There’s progress going on here.

  It does take time.

  You aren’t going to get the right price immediately unless it’s an honest coffee shop.

  And there many of them on this street.

  I’ve got three cakes on a plate. Excuse me, I’m going to pig out on them with my black coffee.

  Let the obnoxiousness begin.

  It’s my specialty.

  I’ve spent a fortune on finely tuning it.

  It doesn’t get me much in return.

  But the stories are always flowing freely.

  I’m always keen to tap into them and hopefully breath some life into them along the way.

  They are the bread and butter of my trade.

  People, without them, the yarns would dry up.

  You can only write so much about a rock.

  The dialogue is lacking.

  But with people, they just tolerate me.

  I’m Jesus Christ, I told the three Chinese whose table I gatecrashed.

  I knew they had to be Christian.

  How could I be JC if I didn’t have any family, they enquired.

  Immaculate Conception. It was just that easy. I said I’m the Holy Trinity. I’m Saint Thomas of Aquarius too.

  You missed a holy ghost, said the lady.

  They quickly left me with my avocado smoothie at Kim’s Juice bar.

  Wait, I said, I’m not done.

  I looked at them.

  They had already said that I must be a rich guy to travel this far just to see a dentist.

  I said to the guy who asked if I was rich, that most likely he was richer than me. He just didn't believe it.

  They also didn’t believe a word of what I said about Australia being a rip-off country that prefers you to work for free.

  ‘They just don’t pay you,’ I said.

  And you think Australia is the land of milk and honey.

  Well, it is only if you are working.

  They were waiting for me to say who the third person of my personal trinity was.

  I’m, I’m…. - I was thinking, fuck, what’s his name. - I’m, I'm... ( I must have added a stutter) I'm... Judas Iscariot.

  I got the fucker out eventually.

  Wasn’t that fucking funny I said.

  They weren’t laughing.

  I was.

  They were quickly making their way to the car.

  They were safe now, once they locked the door.

  I haven’t told them that I plan to pick up some loose Christians at the cathedral down the road.

  You don’t want to show all your cards, right?

  Borneo is good for me.

  They have ojek (motorbike boys) who run off apps and wear jackets with Google Play on the back of it and a WIFI label on their helmets.

  The future has arrived. Having fast internet helps facilitate that.

  Borneo is growing on me.

  I’ve never felt threatened here.

  ‘Are you the owner of Far Side,’ asked Dharma.

  I put my hands together, indicating them being handcuffed.

  ‘You aren’t going to call the police, are you?”

  ‘Why would I,’ he said, ‘your stories are totally off the wall and true.’

  He agreed, the traffic totally disregarded the human element of pedestrians who crossed the road.

  ‘It was much worse in Medan,’ I said.

  I was glad he wasn’t going to call the police.

  Apparently, I have a contact from Java.

  He’ll back me if the shit goes down.

  The shit isn’t going to go down.

  It was another session at the dentist.

  Visiting Dr. Augusta gives meaning in my life.

  She’s slotted me in for today.

  She has two more teeth to path up.

  I don’t even bother asking her which teeth need patching. I just get the price of each tooth so I can prepare payment.

  She’s very good. I look into her eys.

  A soft blue is glowing off a pen she uses to zap the filling, ensuring it goes rock hard.

  It’s almost like a disco light.

  How can I capture this with a camera?

  I’m looking up at the light bulb, it’s my point of reference.

  And thinking, wouldn’t this be a great dental shot.

  My dentist rests an elbow on my chest to get a steadier access to my potty mouth.

  She doesn’t wear surgical gloves. She prefers to feel what’s going on in my mouth.

  I wanted to ask her if an irate customer has bitten her finger while it explored their mouth.

  I’d never do something like that, my tooth would probably break.

  The evil thoughts on the dental chair are always puffed away with pragmatism.

  She’s doing me a favour.

  She could be exploring cleaner mouths. So I’m remaining humble.

  I even tried to look up the sleeve of her dental jacket while she was probing.

  Flesh, my dentist is made of it.

  She’s a finely tuned dental machine that brings relief from pain.

  I think I’m falling for her.

  I put our friendship to the test.

  'This massage is free today, isn't Ariff?'

  He looked at me. His lips wanted to move but he was in shock.

  Over the two hours, he had chain-smoked my cigarettes, eaten my free breakfast and drank my coffees.

  I had the cash, but I wanted to test if he really was a friend.

  He had probably massaged me for about twenty minutes of the two hours.

  The look on his face said that he had massaged me for two hours straigh
t.

  But I knew most of the time was spent watching sexy dangdut girls and bugging me to play porn.

  Only fucking with you, I said and handed him over the cash.

  He does offer a service.

  He wasn't like my Muslim Batak motorbike guy in Medan who just turned up for the free food and cigarettes and his payment at the end of the day.

  At least Ariff doesn't abuse me like Mr. Batak did in Medan.

  He's cultured, my man in Medan was a drug fiend barbarian who sucked me dry for three weeks.

  My back and neck is feeling worse, not better.

  Ariff was great the first few days but now he's in self-preservation mode, get as much cash out of the white guy for as little work as possible.

  I'm reassessing our friendship. It seems a bit one way in my books. I think my cash is better spent elsewhere.

  From being a shit hot massage man, he's now slightly elevated from the humbugger.

  I don't even find his jokes funny.

  After a session with him, I feel drained and ratty.

  What kinda of black magic is he playing at?

  That's the kind of question I'm asking.

  'He only deserved 50 000,' said one of the hotel staff who knows I paid 100 000, two days wages for a full-time staff working eight hours a day, which Ariff got for twenty minutes work. (No wonder he was creaming in his pants).

  And he mimes Ariff's technique, a half-assed attempt at rubbing lotion on the arms and hands.

  'Anyone can do that,' he says, if I didn't know I was being hoodwinked.

  I gotta say, that whitening cream is doing wonders for my back and neck.

  It's never felt so fucking smooth.

  Ariff says he's a stupid man. I'm really starting to question that.

  It's really not Ariff's fault. My injuries were sustained elsewhere. He's trying his best, and that's all I can ask.

  'You are softening.'

  Who was that?

  Perhaps I am. I might even use his services again, and push hard for a discount, again.

  So he gave you a discount?

  He did.

  I'm balancing the scales. Moans can sometimes eclipse the goodness of people.

  And I believe Ariff is one of the good guys.

  I have no idea what the dentist is doing.

  I just sit back and shut up.

  I know she's doing something.

  Please god, let this be painless.

  It's my mantra.

  I look at the light bulb in the ceiling and try to avoid the interrogation light bulb of the dentist chair.