The Perhentian Islands, off the east coast of Malaysia, are glorious and unspoilt. However, it seems like I ruined the island experience for two young sausage-munching lasses.
I woke up alone, the German girls never having found their bearings and decided to join me in my hut. When I climbed out of bed and staggered out to my little veranda overlooking Petani Beach, I noticed a note pinned to my door. I grinned to myself; obviously the Berlin beauties regretted ditching me and wanted to apologise.
“You are the worst thing to happen to the German people since the Nazi Party,” it read. “You suck and we hope your penis fall off and you get cancer of anus. Fuck you.”
I dunno, must’ve been the German sense of humour, or maybe the message was lost in translation or something. I thought I was a perfect gentleman to them. I rambled back over to the cafe, where I had a breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, while the few people who wandered through pointed and whispered about me.
After that, the day consisted of little more than snorkeling, lying on the beach reading, lying on the beach sleeping, lying on the beach writing and wandering around snapping photos of this wonderful place. The most active thing I did was take a stroll along a jungle path towards the island’s only village. This unnamed (alright, I simply can’t be bothered looking it up) place is a tiny fishing village consisting a handful of shacks scattered through the bush and, like the rest of the place it’s extremely picturesque. As I wandered around like a drongo, the locals went about their daily lives – washing clothes, eating delicious food, playing soccer on the beach and heading out on their tinnies to fish. Shit, back home we lock ourselves away in office blocks all day, and we reckon we’re a first world country? I’ll take this lifestyle any day (and the fact all the women were walking around in sarongs that barely covered their naughty bits didn’t hurt, either).
The Perhentian Islands are by far the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited. I’ve been to Thailand and Vietnam and Cambodia, and have explored the best beaches in Australia, but nothing comes close. This place is remote and hard to get to, there’s not much electricity, few actual resorts, and not a lot of comforts, and I hope it can stay this way. There are no no cars, no motorbikes, and the only sounds are birds singing and waves crashing. To sum it up, I fucking love the Perhentian Islands!
I gave the cafe a miss for dinner, instead choosing to make the trek back up to Long Beach to get something to eat. It was worth it. When I got there, the sun was just starting to set and there were plenty of restaurants to choose from. I picked one that had a bunch of tables and chairs on the beach and got myself a couple of beers. They put an edge on my hunger, so I splashed out and bought two meals – a green curry and some sort of squid thing – and sat there munching away like a fat chick in a biscuit factory.
Afterwards, feeling as full as a public school classroom, I waddled down the beach to see what was going on. It was much like the night before, with clumps of smelly hippies huddled together, only it was even quieter and the hippies even less inviting. I smashed a few beers, then a sexy little blonde sheila wandered over. She put the word on me – hard – and I was sure I was in. Just as I was about to ask her to walk six kilometres back to my barren hut, she started trying to sell me a bottle of some sort of filthy-looking orange spirit. I felt so used.
I thanked her for her time, then wandered straight over to the next shop and bought a bottle of the same orange shit for half the price. It was called Orangutan and, from the taste of it, it was most likely orangutan piss. It was awful, and was the first drink to actually give me a hangover WHILE I WAS DRINKING IT. A headache crept into my skull, I started sweating, the whole deal. I still finished the bottle, of course, but there was no way I was gunna finish the second bottle I bought – I gave the last couple of swigs to some sunburnt Pommy-looking bloke, who took a sip and promptly fell into a bin.
From there, things are somewhat hazy. I remember dancing around a fire, and going for a swim in the ocean with a heavily-tattooed South African girl, and singing a Michael Buble song on a karaoke machine, and getting into trouble for pissing in the corner of some sort of dance club thing. But that’s it.
I don’t have a clue how I got home, but I woke up the next day covered in scratches and bruises, without my singlet and with a video on my phone of me pashing (what I really, really hope was) some hot chick. All up, not a bad night.
I wrote this back in May, 2012. In case you’re wondering why there were no updates last week, I was out working in the bush and had no interwebbing connection. Yes, working, which means I may not be jobless, I’m sure as fuck still drunk!