Farsiding Page 6

  I arrived sweaty and smelly. Dr. Augusta raised her concern. It didn't offend. Her English is lousy. And so is my Indonesian.

  But she knew, that inside my carry bag, was a wallet, with cash, to pay for two fillings she was doing today.

  My tracksuit pants aren't that crusty. I have a leash on them in case they go walkabouts.

  My black T-Shirt was drenched in a fat man's marathon of sitting in a non-air-conditioned room downloading porn.

  I wasn't going to tell her that.She knew it already.

  The fat sweating part.

  We are learning to get on with each other.

  She hands me the mirror.

  Fuck, my teeth are looking like teeth without fucking nasty eyesore cavities.

  She's making progress.

  Keep it up, I say.

  A day dream:

  As she peered into my mouth, I could tell she was thinking of her sadistic husband. Then a smile crossed her face as she knew the cops would never find his body...then she said 'you remind me of my husband" and began drilling, deeply.

  Snap out of it for god's sake. And I'm also a big fan of Zisi Emporium for B Movies.

  I'm in again today. I've pushed the schedule ahead.

  I'm running out of time dear, I said, that visa don't wait for anyone and I've only got a few days. I've got ten but wasn't going to tell her that.

  I just wanted to jump the queue and get my fucking teeth fixed up.

  There's a little bump on my tooth. It's 'besar, or big. I want to make it a little less big.

  You big.

  I'm big?

  You are big.

  I'm fucking big, I'm a fucking hippopotamus, but you haven't seen the Ten-Tonne Tessies of the desert. They are so fucking big that they make double doors so they can get in an out of their houses. And they have forklifts, just for getting around inside the house.

  That was all lost on them.

  See you tomorrow, I said.

  That dentist in Malaysia was in some ways very sloppy.

  I'm always blaming someone, aren't I?

  Such is life, but I'm smiling.

  I smile a big mother fucker smile to all the dental staff and Dr.Augusta. She's doing well, and I'm impressed with the progress.

  The pain has long gone, so have the heart palpitations.

  The dodgy teeth and infections were leaking into the bloodstream and poisoning me.

  It pays to keep on top of cavities.

  I'm glad my money is being spent here in Indonesia than Australia.

  I just don't see the point of going to an Australian dentist that employs an Indian on a bridging visa, when I can go to Indonesia and get it done by an Indonesian and for one-tenth the price.

  Australian dentists, you have failed me.

  It was only codeine tablets that saved me.

  Even they are outlawed now in the land of milk and honey.

  Man, you gotta wise up otherwise they'll rob you dry.

  Now all I need to do is get rid of that cholesterol bottling up in my neck and I'll be a new man.

  Now where the fuck is Ariff?

  I thought I saw him sitting in the lobby on the way up to the third-floor coffee shop.

  I've even downloaded some new porn for him.

  The question is, do I really need his entertainment?

  Of course I do.

  But I'm going to blow him off today.

  It's a bad image having a walking garbage bin consuming everything in sight. I saw him sneak up to the cafe last night.

  He's into some dodgy dealings, that's for sure.

  My back needs a rest, and who knows, it might even feel better.

  I'll let the cock sucker beg for mercy. He's been a fucking slack ass lately.

  Now's the time to cut him off, where it hurts most, his fucking wallet.

  'But I've got four kids to feed.'

  The oldest fucking trick in the book which works most times.

  I'm a smoker and need money.

  That line rarely works.

  Get your fucking balls sacks cut out or something, I really wanted to tell Arif. 'Fewer kids to feed means more money in your pocket.'

  Instead of saying that, I'll let him stew.

  Yesterday he earned 100 0000, Rupiah.

  It usually takes most Indonesians two solid days of hard work to earn that kind of dough. It took Ariff 20 minutes. And the hardest part of the massage was applying the whitening cream on my back and neck.

  It was a big red smackeroo.

  One of the hotel staff gave me the conversions, though I knew it already. No wonder Ariff kept on repeating that I was a good man.

  Ariff says he's stupid. Then what does that make me?

  Now I know why whores spread their legs, the financial benefits far outweigh the degradation of pimping yourself out.

  I've not met a whore who hasn't had a wet slippery cunt, though.

  Ariff isn't into a dialogue.

  His hands are so big, he could snap my neck before you could say Jack Robinson, so I better keep up the pretence we are the best of fucking mates.

  Just watching him in the foyer, looking sad and forlorn, I could see through it this time. He's up there with the best.

  You wanna learn about con men, come to Indonesia, they have taken the art to another level.

  There was talk among friends that Ariff was ISIS.

  I'll be extra nice to him. I might even flash him a smile with my new spanking fucking white teeth.

  It could be the best porn he's watched in days.

  Mohammed takes care of parking outside of KFC, on the side street.

  He likes my black T-Shirt and he's asked every day, for the past two weeks, that I should I give it to him before I return to Australia.

  Last night he greeted me with a handshake, five minutes later I eventually secured my hand from his grip.

  He's a real character. He's usually chatting up the old bags that come out for a trick and treat after sunset.

  They are old hags and adorable.

  I bought him a packet of cigarettes one day.

  He owns a prime turf and I won't be shouting him a coffee anytime soon.

  At first, I thought he was some fucking spy.

  He's way too dumb for that.

  I'm playing just as dumb.

  I think we might be a good team.

  I'll be paying more attention to the hookers who sit on the seat of their parked motorbikes.

  Pontianak has some hot young chicks doing the rounds on motorbikes.

  They'll sit on their parked Honda Dreams like stool pigeons, waiting for an offer.

  West Kalimantan could well be the place they call Paradise Lost. It has all the innocence of a whore attending a Bat mitzvah.

  I'm really impressed.

  I'm always winding up.

  You have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, leave.

  That's long behind me too.

  As much as I try, I just can't piss off the people of Borneo.

  Even the copper wasn't offended when I said I didn't have my passport on me.

  'No problem Mister.'

  He didn't want to see it. He only wanted a selfie with me and chat about his music. He was muttering about how he's into air guitaring.

  I'm going to charge the locals 5000 Rupiah, or fifty cents my currency, every selfie they have with me.

  I'd be a rich guy.

  A Chinese family have requested a selfie with me, says Ekka. I'll oblige, how can I not? It's not a normal request, and that's why I find it so endearing. But just don't post the picture on Twitter, I say, 'I have a hostile enemy tracking me down for the Liberation Army of Pattani.'

  And it would be totally illegal charging them for a picture, I tell the copper, who looks like Poncho from the CHiPs 70's sitcom.

  He's wearing a jacket, covering his badges and police uniform. It quickly comes off as Ekka, the owner of Mc Cafe, takes a shot of me and the copper with my Samsung smart camera. Man, can't you do bett
er that, I ask Ekka.I'm looking fat and bloated.

  It's one of those days.

  I can't figure it out, I've not been raced out of town yet.

  'It's not going to happen,' says Ekka, who is an Indonesian Chinese.

  What, it's not going to happen?

  Bummer.

  I'm just not used to such kindness and lay backness.

  Every time I open my mouth, I'm offending.

  Could it be that they are lining me up to be the next white Rājā of West Kalimantan?

  I'm related to Sir James Brooke, I tell the copper.

  Ekka translate.

  'I thought so,' said the copper.

  Man, if I told them I was Neil Armstrong, they'd also believe it. Saying I"m Thomas Edison is a favorite too.

  Borneo, a very large island, larger than most of South East Asia, from Singapore to Vietnam, marches to its own beat.

  I haven’t put my finger on it. But the tribal beats are reaching to my inner core and opening my eyes to other possibilities.

  ‘A light bulb idea?’ asks Ekka.

  Yep.

  And why do you employ hot young girls at your coffee shop?

  ‘Makes the customer feel good.’

  That girl at Cafe 21 made me feel very good.

  ‘I know,’ says Ekka,’ she is Dyak.’

  She had the biggest set of knockers and a knockout figure.

  The deaf-mutes were rooting for me.

  The other group of deaf-mutes told me to avoid this group sitting next to me. The one that told me that in sign language was pretty tasty too.

  Now, who do I believe?

  I mentioned the Poncho sighting with my ex-FBI buddy and paranormal investigator, who seemed just as interested in the big knockers of the Dyak warrior at Cafe 21.

  " Love it...instead of Poncho, Bonnie (Randi Oakes) from CHiPs. She takes your phone, does something to it, gives it back to you, and says she will let you off with a warning. By the way, there's another number in your contacts list. She gives you a seductive smile and walks away."

  I'm still coffee deficient, but it's making perfect sense. Now who the fuck is that other number?

  Do I dial the number?

  'Hello,' says a sultry voice.

  It's Ms Dyak and she's invited me back to Cafe 21. I'll take a wad of cash and see if I can court her with some big red notes.

  What's the worse she can do, blow me off? I still have my deaf-mute friends to hang out with and the hot one who told me not to speak to the bad boys. She might even engage in some serious sign language with me.

  I've no idea what they are putting in the coffee served at Zisi Emporium, but I'll order a double of whatever it is next time I'm there.

  'THE RETURN TO CAFE 21....' says the owner of Zisi Emporium, Mr. Christopher Zisi, who is considering writing his own review of this movie if it ever gets made, ' is permeated with a whiff of sex and an abundance of coffee aromas set in a bistro of seduction.'

  That's how I'd sum up the cafe. As Ekka says, the hot chicks draw in the perverts.

  In the name of research and scouting locations, I'll hit the joint later today.

  Wait, tweets Chris. He says he's being inspired by Topeka, Kansas.

  I'm waiting.

  'Sex, seduction and a vanilla latte that will wet your whistle.'

  That's always the promise when punters like us enter these kinds of establishments.

  ''But it's the Karaoke joint you are really after,' says Ekka. 'The cafe girls are real flirts, but the most you'll get out of them is a selfie.'

  Not deflated, a shot of reality in my expresso was a sobering thought.

  Management at the hotel are offering to launder a shirt, a pair of jocks and my tracksuit pants.

  Clean clothes, I might be in for the running.

  A fifteen-minute selfie session at my local, no one had any time to say that I smelt. I was sweety and well, smelly.

  But selfies always come first.

  The tourists go to the jungle or the coast. They don't come here.

  Pontianak is deprived of Western tourists. I'm all they have.

  The problem with wearing professionally washed clothes, ten minutes later they are soaking wet from humidity.

  Hand washing and hanging them is the only way to go on the open road.

  I had to decline to get my clothes washed for free.

  Why? asked the manager who I think wants me to rent out his room in the hotel for the next year.

  Because I've only got one set of clothing.

  Ha ha ha.

  He didn't believe me.

  One more session at the dentist.

  She's been performing magic.

  I don't know how long the teeth will stay white but she's even patched up the top of the tooth that connects with the gums. The tooth enamel was flicking off.

  Now it's new.

  She uses strips of plastic and then zaps it with infrared light. The light is actually blue. Infra blue light. The results are just amazing. I had no idea she could patch them up.

  They are on top of dentistry here.

  I'm drinking gallons of beverages just to keep the fluids up on the equator.

  Most of the suppliers have rotten teeth. It's mostly the Chinese who have bad teeth. But selling drinks for thirty cents, my currency, isn't going to fatten up their savings to invest in a visit to the dentist.

  Problem is a bloated bladder needs a toilet. Not a slippery one, or one that has rats guarding its entrance or a door that self-locks.

  It's always a battle when consuming drinks. A battle to find a toilet you aren't going to slip on the floor and never get back up.

  I've had a few nasty falls. A bad knee, a neck that is worse from a few falls helping out another friend. Collectively, the neck is saying fuck off. And I'm the one dealing with it.

  Walking sticks are just so cool. I walked vast distances in the desert with one.

  A bowlegged lady was walking with one yesterday. I took a photo of her in black and white. A walking stick doubled up as a weapon.

  Tap tap.

  Nothing too aggressive, more a warning.

  'Fuck off and take photos of someone else you nosy bastard.'

  She was pretty good with it, and used it like a martial artist using a staff.

  I'm giving my massage man a big miss. There's nothing he can do about it. Management won't let him harass customers.

  I wear my stinky running shoes for more traction. When it's raining surfaces get slippery.

  Not only do I get free breakfast and coffee all day, they have added a free laundry service.

  Borneo is the land of milk and honey. If it wasn't, would I be getting all these freebies? Of course not.

  I'm not giving up. I've got readers to entertain.

  An old man pulled a cart full of rubbish with tiny and tired steps. An old lady with twisted legs, crabbed painfully across the road. I've got a long way before I'm suffering like them.

  So toughen up Princess and no slipping. You ain't a young spring chicken anymore but that is no excuse not to go hard.

  To access my free breakfast, I have to walk up three flights of stairs. Nothing like an incentive to go the hard yards. The knees refuse to crack under the pressure. They are real team players when it counts most.

  I think of Inspector Tay. He aint no spring chicken either. But just look what the bugger does at the end of the fourth book in the series, The Girl in the Window. Do you think Singapore gave him a medal for it?

  I could even hear his knees creaking as he tracked down that Indonesian terrorist.

  If you are looking for inspiration, then read that book.

  'Do not go gentle into that good night..'

  That's become my motto as the Big Five 'O' looms in flashing red neon light.

  Could that be a cathouse, just over the horizon?

  I just can't avoid the selfies.

  Everyone I give the benefit of the doubt becomes a selfie queen in my presence.

 
I was promoting a bikey gang last night.

  'Hold that sticker and be quiet.'

  I was quiet.

  'And fucking smile.'

  I'm sure my face is gracing 'The Family Biker Club's' Facebook page as I speak.

  The leader who called me from off the street sat me down and plonked a black coffee on the table.

  He was telling me how he liked 'em big.

  The pretty girls at the cafe were on the biggish size.

  His wife, an effervescent bubble of gigantic proportions said 'big is beautiful.'

  I wanted to give her a hug there and then.

  At last I found a group of people who didn't mind a bit of padding.

  'She big.'

  The waitress went red.

  The lead biker made sure he offended most of the buxom and cute waitresses before I had finished my coffee.

  Then he took a few selfies of me.

  'You are now in my library.'

  I'm in his fucking library.

  Jailed forever.

  I left the gang and said I might return tomorrow.

  'It is now tomorrow,' said the 'Fat Borneo Pageant Queen'. She had folds of fat and held her own when her husband declared he liked watching blue movies.

  What they didn't know was that I had been downloading porn all day. I let out a little nervous laugh. Arsenal was playing Man U and a talking head appeared with a blue background.

  'There's your blue,' I said. No one laughed.

  I'm fond of those waitresses.

  They haven't asked me for a selfie yet.

  My teeth are sparkling white. Who knows, that might lure them in.

  'Be careful,' said another bikey, as I walked home.

  I had spent one month in Medan, in Sumatra, I said, with a touch of bravado.

  But I was watching myself as I walked the last 500 meters to the main road. Young hoodlums on bikes were hanging out on the side of the road.

  Play the dumb tourist, I said to myself.

  I pulled out my camera and took a few photos of a street lantern.

  'Selfie mister.' And thus begun another cycle of fake smiles.

  How can you mug a tourist who is interested in the local Chinese lanterns?

  It worked.

  I made it back to my hotel.

  It was well after midnight.

  Now where did the fucking night go?