Farsiding Page 8

  Diamonds are forever. I’ll have the whole fucking street singing that song before I’m out of here in a few days.

  My friend gets back to me. He says hold your horses. ‘It’s not Herpes you’ve got, it’s Syphilis.’

  Google has a lot to answer for. I’m not sold for one minute.

  ‘That might explain why you’re mad as a hatter,’ he says, ‘but don’t fear, it’s treatable now.’

  But what about that build up of liquid around my spinal chord, I asked.

  ‘Probably terminal cancer,’ he replied, ‘ so seize the now.’

  I always thought that Eckart Tolle was another German con man.

  Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for Van Gogh inspiration, it may come any moment now.

  Bowel movements. I run to the toilet. It’s a mess. I’ll label it expressionism with somber colours.

  ‘Looks like bowel cancer,’ said Ace, ‘I’d get that checked out too.’

  And I hear you can get worms from eating pork too. Life was one long terminal illness and embracing it is a submission to that fact.

  I run down the flight of stairs. It’s my third trip to the hotel’s cafe on the third floor. I’m steady and Eddy and even the creaking knees are conspicuously absent today. Whatever was in that round of antibiotics is pounding the fuck out of the virus and a vitality is creeping over me.

  I can feel a nap coming on.

  The dark clouds don’t just descend, they dump the crap out ya.

  Is it the coffee or a healthy dose of paranoia?

  They are after me.

  It's when you reach that point that they might be watching you.

  Why would they be watching me?

  I can name a few reasons.

  I know too much.

  Well to be honest, I know jack shit.

  But that still doesn’t stop that thought of death by a thousand angry knives.

  Call it what you will, but an anxiety attack like this is just damn scary.

  You gotta ride it.

  Either you get stabbed in confined spaces or you don’t.

  It was in 1997 when the looting and raping began, causing fear in the Chinese community.

  I’m not the only one who lives in fear.

  'There's an explanation to your hallucinations,' says Max, my Chinese friend.

  Do go on.

  'There's a grave behind Mc Cafe.'

  What the fuck. It's in that toilet I was having thoughts of being jumped by unsavoury types and stabbed to death.

  'There's a cemetery just behind the toilet,' says Max, 'it's a Muslim cemetery and usually freaks me and my friends out.'

  The ghost followed me home. I was pissing all night.

  'It was haunting you,' said Max.

  Sure enough, I googled the location of Mc Cafe and found a cemetery, overgrown.

  There was a reason why I never liked that toilet. Now I know.

  Max has been very resourceful. It only took an hour of retelling my story before he came up with something interesting to say. But what he said, just blew my fucking mind.

  For you lovers of ghost stories, I've located the coordinates on google map here.

  'It's haunted.'

  I know. Surely one of the skeletons resting in a grave was a serial killer.

  'Abdullah,' says Max, ' he was the madman of Pontianak, went on a killing rampage after the vampire spirit of the river knocked back his advances.'

  Now he's making that up.

  'Anything to keep you happy, Sir.'

  Fuck off I say, I'm looking for cold-blooded facts, not make believe.

  But he got me thinking.

  A cemetery with the ghost of a serial killer, close enough to float over to the cafe's outhouse...

  Man, I wish I had the good sense to say that. Nice one Steve Cartwright.

  But Max informs me it's a ghost of a boy that haunts the toilet.

  Have you seen it, I ask.

  'I have.'

  And have you spoken to it?

  'Nope, I don't want to disturb it. It's not of our world.'

  I'm guessing the back part of the cafe use to be a cemetery and was concreted over and built on.

  Past the first pool table, and into the second pool table room that connects to the toilet that looks like it's just been slapped up, you can feel the ghosts doing their supernatural dances, consolidating their turf.

  With no more dental appointments, Ariff my massage guy was hanging around the hotel foyer like a bad smell.

  Maybe I’ll splash some money his way today. Surely if I invest in three bucks my currency, I’ll walk away with a story.

  He’s a harmless no-good-massage man who doesn’t know the difference between a bicep and a calf muscle.

  I had change from paying my room and thought I’d invite him upstairs to the cafe for a quick massage.

  He started out well but kept gravitating to my head. You see, it’s easier to massage the head, less energy is consumed. He did a big sweep of my back and kept on aggravating a mole, that if wasn’t cancerous, is now after his intense rubbing of it.

  ‘Don’t do my head,’ I said politely while pushing my untouched plate of fried rice in front of him. I also ordered him a coffee.

  His breakfast out the way, the thrump started massaging my head again.

  The planned hour massage was cut to ten minutes.

  I paid him up and wished him the best.

  He got a free meal out of me and some change. But he wasn’t listening. I needed the back of neck massaged, not my fucking head.

  I’m thick, but Ariff is proving even thicker than me.

  I told him I’m going to Malaysia. He got that part. But he didn’t quite understand that I was returning two days later. He was quick to offer to take me out to the airport. He’s an ojek driver too. I had learned my lesson the hard way in Medan and politely declined.

  Two fatties on the back of a motorbike isn’t what I call fun.

  I bet it would also be a tour of every whore house in Pontiniak and a missed flight.

  The fucker rubbed his sticky smelly oil into my back again. It’s going to take days to wash it off.

  But in the name of charity and friendship, I did use his services. The manager eyed him up as he arrived for work.

  ‘He’s not annoying you, is he? is exactly what that look said.

  No he’s not annoying me. I’m not giving him enough time to annoy me.

  I just wish it was that easy to get rid of that Muslim Batak in Medan, who rode my coattails extensively for three weeks. That was one humbugger I couldn’t shake off.

  My flight from Bali to Pontianak was a result of another Balinese driver rocking up at my hotel every day, demanding money. He never asked, but they don’t have too. Once they establish the rules of engagement, its pay and pay some fucking more.

  I’m here in Borneo now and the humbug factor is very low.

  And I’m grateful for that. I really am.

  Ariff didn’t have time to work on me. He was about to use all his power of persuasion to get a two-hour massage. He was looking at the dollars. But he wasn’t paying attention to the detail. If you don’t cough up a good service, usually the customer will either catch the next flight or look for a better deal.

  I have no intention of running away from Borneo. I’m going to take a leisurely flight to Malaysia and a leisurely flight back. I’ve still got some exploring to do. The human condition is rich in this part of the world. I’d be an idiot not to tap into it.

  These kind of stories that just drop on your lap don’t come too often, do they?

  The mole is inflamed. I’ll have Ariff to thank for it.

  ‘Its red,’ he says.

  And it’s fucking inflamed still from your last session.

  That’s all lost on Ariff who should stick to what he’s good at, riding motorbikes. He aint no massage man. But I’ll give him credit for trying. I’ll never put a man down for trying. Well that’s not true. But I’ll only put him down in words
here, and never to his face. I’ll also make sure he never sees my posts.

  It’s a lot kinder that way.

  Ariff was fishing for porn. I said the internet was down. He didn’t believe me.

  There’s dumb, dumber and Ariff. But I’ll never tell him that. He’s a martial arts expert, kung fu apparently.

  Man, if he adopted more aggressive tactics like the Batak Muslim in Sumatra, he could be a rich man by now.

  I’m not about to give a pro tip either. It will cost me too much.

  I know he’s got it him to be a bigger humbugger. But management at my hotel shuns that kind of behaviour.

  I’m going to be walking around all day with slimy oil on my back

  ‘Wash off after one hour,’ says my massage guy.

  I would, if I could, I said, adding, ‘you don’t have any paint thinners do you?’

  That was lost on my massage guy. He’s in that perfect place called ignorant bliss. How can you condemn a man who hasn’t yet been banished from Eden?

  By saying a big thank you, and mumbling under the breath, fuck off.

  In short, it’s what I did today.

  Ariff wasn’t convinced when I said he was my very good friend. I wonder why? It seems we are both as fake as each other.

  Money really does corrupt, I’d be the first to say.

  I winked at my man, saying again, ‘I’ll be back in three days, then we can look for big milk.’

  Shhhhh, he said, acknowledging ‘can do.’ He was afraid management would hear him and ruin his squeaky-clean reputation.

  Everyone on Jalan Siam knows me as Mr. Herpes and the staff wasn’t born yesterday. Everyone is on the make. And what makes my massage man any different?

  ‘I’m a holy man.’

  Given he does pray before he massages me. I suppose that’s the appeal of his services. It isn’t just a massage, it’s a communion with Allah.

  And the fucking grease balls on my forehead. Man, Ariff just loves his fucking oils.

  I’m gunna have to show a clip of my Japanese micro bikini girls. I think it’s right down his alley.

  That’s my surprise for him for when I return. He’ll just adore Miyuki and Rinna.

  This story officially cost me three bucks, a coffee, two cigarettes and a plate of rice. Not that I was intentionally itemizing things. But when I handed over the cash, he was pissed off. He was at it for 15 minutes, so he made a fucking fortune.

  ‘You very good man,’ he said again, but without the enthusiasm of former sessions when he was creaming it.

  And Jesus Fucking Christ walks on water.

  He was impressed.

  The prayer session will continue another day, I said, meanwhile, get back downstairs and find another sucker.

  I’m really sick of his company. He’s better in short doses, any longer, he’ll make me feel like the biggest assswipe for paying him above award wages.

  He’s not a hot commodity anymore. And he knows it.

  But in his defense, he’s very generous with his snake oil and white moisturizer lotion.

  It's the complicit nod and understanding that we are both screwing each other that makes this game so delicious.

  It was time to check out the cemetery behind McCafe.

  I had it lined up on Google Street View. And today I had rallied my team.

  It's only around the corner from Warung Indah but the owner says he'll drive us.

  Max was tagging along. He likes his role of translator, but today he was very quiet.

  Anton is not only the owner of Warung Indah but he's funny as fuck. He's Christian and says I look like Jesus Christ because of my gigantic nose.

  Anton is Chinese and about my age, and over the course of my three weeks in Pontianak, we have established a solid friendship. His English isn't' the best, but nor is my Indonesian.

  He's a bluesman.

  We drove around the corner to the cemetery.

  Why walk when you can drive a car? asks Anton.

  He's into the spirit as he parks on the side of the road next to the cemetery and blasts the whole neighborhood with a 'blues' CD.

  I'm trying to be serious. It's never easy. I invite comedy. One day it's going to backfire if I'm not careful. But fingers and toes crossed; sir help me god.

  Don't we all direct our own lives?

  The cemetery is waterlogged. I'm not going to penetrate this cemetery. It's protected by mosquito-infested brackish water and I'm already sinking after a few steps in.

  Snakes and ghosts protect this plot, says Max.

  'Enter at your own risk.

  I take my obligatory pictures and walk back to the car. I'm feeling the welcoming vibe. Anton is dancing.

  Max isn't. He's maintaining his professor image. He's only crazy indoors, far away from his college.

  I start dancing. But I"m also filming. Aren't I a sly dog?

  I tell Max this reminds me of the good old days fucking and dancing at the Christian cemetery in Surabaya. Max is smart enough not to translate that.

  A Muslim man looks at our little happening. He's not impressed.

  I allay his fear by saying I'm taking a few photos of the cemetery.

  Across the street is another cemetery. The caretaker is cutting the grass. Graves that have been buried for years under grass appear.

  Max is trying to ask the caretaker for permission to enter.

  Fuck that I think, as I enter the open building protecting the graves. The caretaker is too busy cutting grass with a whipper snipper. He's failing to listen to Max who has asked about five times if we can enter the building.

  I take that as my cue to sneak in. I've not even taken off my shoes.

  Credit due, though, the caretaker can see I'm keen as mustard to pay my respects. His inaction is another cue to go hell for leather and take photos. It's more like instinct now. I can't count how many temples, mosques, churches I've been booted out of. But I'm banking on a warm reception due to the obscure nature of the cemetery.

  If it was a big mosque and I acted the maggot, it would only be fair that I was booted out.

  The floor is moving beneath my feet. It feels like it's been patched up with light plaster. It's about to crack and I'm going to be dragged under by unseen hands. Underneath I suspect it was a grave that's been filled in.

  It's too flimsy not to be. It's in the roofed area reserved for the Sultan's family.

  It's touch and go if I fall into the temporarily covered grave reserved for royalty or not. Eventually I make it out on solid ground. That's one less bill I'll have to pay.

  The caretaker is silently laughing his left lung out and accepts my apology for entering the sacred zone without permission. I guess he doesn't get too many foreign visitors.

  He knows I'm one of those types that like visiting cemeteries, he could spot it a mile away.

  I was going to recommend him a nice cemetery in Surabaya, but the boys dragged me away. They were worried a mob of Muslims was about to descend on us anytime. It was mosque day after all.

  Good news, says Max, the sultan has been moved to another cemetery.

  Even better news, we were long gone from there.

  I wasn't detained at the airport.

  Apparently, the Pontianak folk consider me harmless.

  The useless information you pick up along the way.

  'They harvest organs,' says Mal. 'Just be careful.'

  Now I bet you can guess what area I'm talking about.

  'They target young girls,' continues Mal, who works at the 7-11 and gives me the low down where I can buy black market cigarettes. Borneo is Borneo, it's not mainland Malaysia. There's a distinct taste in its demeanor you won't find on the peninsula.

  The large island is infused with a Borneo spirit that's not hard to miss. I even got a number of the sweet Muslim thing at the Taxi stand. She likes texting in English and I suggested we try and before I could say 'amen' she handed over her number in nice handwriting.

  But I got a foul look from her m
ale colleague. Or was it a look of 'well done'? You never know in this part of the world where what you think and expect could be very contrary to it. Like getting a phone number off a hot Muslim chick. I was even chatting up the Air Asia sales lady, a big Malay woman who was giving me eyes after I bombarded her with questions of flights and prices.

  Maybe Borneo is a well-kept secret. Maybe they don't want us to know that Malaysia, or at least part of it, can still play chilled.

  'But just be very careful if you go to Semporna in Sabah,' says Mel, who thinks I'll love the snorkeling there, or the hot Sabah chicks, or perhaps even both.

  A few islands north is the base of the Philippine terrorist group, Abu Sayyaf. Fuck, the Australian government should give them visas. They'll be washing dishes and earning big bucks and thoughts of kidnapping young girls and rich Chinese Malaysian and cashed up Western tourists will be an 'old' thought.

  'But have army patrolling the pristine beaches,' he says, 'but still must be careful.'

  Thanks for the tip-off buddy.

  I wasn't detained at the airport.

  Apparently, the Pontianak folk consider me harmless.

  The useless information you pick up along the way.

  'They harvest organs,' says Mal. 'Just be careful.'

  Now I bet you can guess what area I'm talking about.

  'They target young girls,' continues Mal, who works at the 7-11 and gives me the low down where I can buy black market cigarettes. Borneo is Borneo, it's not mainland Malaysia. There's a distinct taste in its demeanor you won't find on the peninsula.

  The large island is infused with a Borneo spirit that's not hard to miss. I even got a number of the sweet Muslim thing at the Taxi stand. She likes texting in English and I suggested we try and before I could say 'amen' she handed over her number in nice handwriting.

  But I got a foul look from her male colleague. Or was it a look of 'well done'? You never know in this part of the world where what you think and expect could be very contrary to it. Like getting a phone number off a hot Muslim chick. I was even chatting up the Air Asia sales lady, a big Malay woman who was giving me eyes after I bombarded her with questions of flights and prices.

  Maybe Borneo is a well-kept secret. Maybe they don't want us to know that Malaysia, or at least part of it, can still play chilled.