A few years ago I went on an epic journey through China, Malaysia and Brunei. I almost fell off the Great Wall, got into a fight with violent Hong Kong kung-fuists and passed out under more palm trees than you’ve had hot dinners. When the proud people of these wonderful Oriental nations finally decided they’d had enough of me and sent me back to Australia, I got some bloke with a pencil to draw up a few comic strips about my wacky adventures. They appeared in wank rag The Picture and really captured what the Drunk and Jobless World Tour is all about. Enjoy my rice wine-soaked awesomeness in animated form. I’m like a fucking Marvel superhero, so go fuck yourself Chris Hemsworth!
I’m 10,000 metres about the earth, with endless darkness outside my window and an overweight Malaysian dude drooling onto the lapel of his Hawaiian shirt next to me. My holiday is over, and it’s time to head home and face the real world.
Fortunately, my last day in Asia provided all the drama and excitement that I could hope for, which is why I’m currently so tired I can barely lift my can of beer to my lips. With a boat taking me back the Malaysian mainland at midday, I headed out for one final snorkel in the delightful ocean. All I wanted to see was a turtle. Just one. They’re all over the place in the Perhentian Islands, but in three days I hadn’t seen one. I splashed around, chasing fish and savouring every minute of my time in that underwater kingdom, but there were no turtles. Finally, reluctantly, it was time to head back to shore and pack my bags.
And there it was.
Centimetres from me was a giant sea turtle, elegantly soaring through the water while I stared in amazement. I just stopped, treading water while I soaked in the beauty of this incredible creature. As the turtle swam further out into the blue, I paddled alongside her, diving deeper into the ocean, not wanting to lose her. I finally had to let her go, and she disappeared into the deep while I reluctantly returned to shore.
I dragged my bags out into the sun and waited for my ride back to reality. And waited. Turns out they forgot all about me, and a special water taxi had to be called so that I could actually start my journey back to Australia. When it finally arrived, there was a pretty Japanese girl in it. Her name was Anri, and she’d also been forgotten by the ferry, so we travelled back to the mainland together, struggling with the language barrier as we both tried to come to terms with our holidays ending. We shared a taxi back to the airport, then caught the same plane back to Kuala Lumpur, where we both faced a few hours of waiting around for planes in opposite directions.
We had time to get to know each other. We shared photos of our families, talked about what we’d seen and what we had to go back to. She was off to teach scuba diving courses in Thailand, which I thought sounded a lot better than writing about tits in a cold office in Sydney. We held hands, an innocent act that meant so much. Anri couldn’t even pronounce my name, but when it came time for her to catch her plane, I farewelled her with sadness. I wish I’d kissed her as she left for her flight, but I didn’t.
In six or so hours, we had a complete relationship – from meeting each other, to being introduced to the family, to breaking up. In some ways, it was the best relationship I’ve had, one without the inevitable fighting and sadness. And it was the perfect ending to a great holiday.
And now here I am, fighting the need to sleep and cradling a warm can of Heineken. The Great Wall of China and the Petronas Towers are behind me. Cled and the Chinese bloke who liked Norm Peterson from Cheers and the dude in Guilin who rooted the dog are nothing but memories. It’s been an incredible experience, one full of wonder and excitement and adventure. It’s been my first solo trip overseas and I’ve grown so much. I grew up thinking I could barely go to the shops by myself, and here I am, coming home from a month in Asia on my Pat Malone.
After three-and-a-half weeks of drinking, spewing, exploring, embarrassing myself, falling over, down and into things, running from perverts and chasing women, here it is – my last full day of my holiday. Another glorious Malaysian sky greeted me as I made my way out of my hut at dawn, skipped across the golden sand and flopped into the azure ocean. And that’s largely how the day went. I truly had no desire to do anything other than just flop around, soaking in the magic of the Perhentian Islands.
The only thing that interrupted a second day of snorkelling, sleeping, reading and generally bludging was a necessary trip to the other island – the BIG ISLAND, also known as Besar – to get some money out. It wasn’t much of a hassle really, and was quite a bit of fun. I returned to the fishing village, marveling again at their carefree lifestyle, then took a tiny boat across the two kilometres to the other island. The water here was truly wonderful – so bright and blue and clear that my brain had trouble registering that it was actually real.
Once on the island there wasn’t an ATM to speak of, but that didn’t really matter. The Big Island is the more tourist-friendly island, with more expensive resorts, but is still wonderfully quiet. There’s nothing that could be mistaken for a village, and little more than a string of tiny resorts looking out onto the beach. I got a beer and a couple of bags of chips and just sat down, staring goofily at the idyllic scene playing out in front of me.
As I was checking my phone, I noticed that I had a friend request on the Facebook, and it was from Cled. Yes, Cled, the gluttonous, perverted Yank I met in Brunei, had somehow tracked me down on the information superhighway (how good is that term!) and wanted to catch up. His profile showed him naked bar for some tiny pink lingerie wrapped around his pudgy body, which made me feel sick. I added him, anyway.
Cled messaged me immediately, and it was a dick pic. Of course it was a dick pic. While I was gagging, a fat woman in a sarong waddled over, and as soon as she saw what was on the screen, she started screaming. “This sicko is watching gay porn on his phone!” she squawked, and a group of angry tourists stormed over and surrounded me, berating me for being a sex pest. I tried to explain what had happened, but they weren’t listening, and instead started throwing things at me.
They were treating me like Gary Glitter, and I knew it would only be a matter of time before the angry mob started stabbing me, so I ran away like a small child. I belted along the sand, dodging boats and sunbathers, while the maniacs screamed and acted like berks as they chased me. The little champion who had brought me over saw me coming and waved at me, then quickly started pushing his boat into the crystal clear water. “Get in, get in!” he wailed, and I dived into the dinghy just as it slid into the water. The angry mob howled with rage as I escaped, standing at the edge of the water and shaking their fists as I mooned them.
After watching the sun sink into the ocean one last time while sipping on a can of Tiger, I found a quiet restaurant overlooking the ocean and reflected on my trip while munching my curry. It’s been fun, exciting, scary, hard and inspirational. I’ve walked through the world’s biggest cities, sailed down pristine rivers, and sat on stunning beaches. And tomorrow, it all ends… but I’ve got a feeling there’s still some adventure left in this holiday.
I wrote this back in May, 2012, while sipping rum from a coconut.
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!
Travelling can never be simple for me. If everything went to schedule I’d be catching a taxi to the airport, a plane back to Kuala Lumpur, another plane to Kota Bharu on Malaysia’s west coast, a taxi to a tiny little town called Kuala Besut, and then a boat out to the beautiful Perhentian Islands. But there was a possible problem between me and the final destination of my adventure – the time between landing in KL and jumping on the next flight was a slim 95 minutes and if anything went wrong there, I could say goodbye to a one of my three nights on the islands. Even Clementine Ford’s bedsprings aren’t under that much pressure.
I got my shit together and walked out of my room, and was shocked to see a huge pile of garbage opposite my door. As I walked past, fuck me, one of the bags moved! When I looked closer, it wasn’t a black plastic bag full of garbage at all, it was a black plastic bag full of sweaty, naked Cled. For some reason he was wearing the bag as a sort of one-piece suit and was hiding in amongst the rubbish, doing his best to not be seen.
“Cled, mate, what’s the deal with your clobber?” I asked, and he pretended like he’d just seen me.
“Oh, this? Everyone’s wearing garbage bags this season,” he swanned, then blushed.
“That’s a load of crap, what’s the real story?”
“Alright, but keep this on the down-low. The girls,” and as he said this, he raised his hands, “wanted a bit of public sex. You know how kinky chicks can get. So I took them out and we had a saucy threesome in the lift.”
“Alright, and then what happened?”
“Well, my body may be beautiful and sensual and covered in a fine layer of fur, but it doesn’t have any pockets to put keys in, so I was locked out of my room.”
“So you decided to climb into a dirty garbage bag and sit in a pile of rubbish?”
“I figured the cleaners would be around at some point, and when they opened the door I could sneak in like nothing happened.”
“Oh yeah, there’s nothing as inconspicuous as an obese American climbing buck-naked out of a fucking garbage bag.”
“Glad you agree, buddy.”
“See ya, Cled.”
“Oh, you’re going? Have a safe trip.” With that, he stood up and a gentle breeze lifted the bottom of his bag dress, exposing the tiniest, hairiest little cock the world has ever been cursed with. He chucked out a hand, and I politely declined. Shit, I almost cut my hand off after touching him the first time, so I didn’t need to do it again.
I mate it to the airport alright, but or some absolutely batshit crazy reason the good people of Brunei don’t use scanners to check carry-on luggage before the flight. Instead, they had two or three little blokes who would open up ever pocket of every bag and rifle through it. And they were slower than a retarded turtle. The woman who checked my bag grabbed a pair of my undies and gave me a big smile, but I wasn’t in any mood for returning the grin, and it wasn’t just because of the skidmarks.
I made it onto the plane, took my seat and waited while the other passengers s l o w l y filed in. Our departure time came and went, and still people were climbing on. Ten minutes late… 15… 20. Finally, 22 minutes after we were supposed to have pissed off, the doors closed and we started moving off. Crap.
As you can guess, it wasn’t a particularly fun trip. For the next hour, I was on the edge of my sleep like a bloke with haemorrhoids. We landed, I pushed my way through the other passengers and sprinted the 2km to the baggage terminal, dodging fatties and diving past strollers and champions in wheelchairs. I cleared customs in seconds, got my bag without too much trouble, and blazed my way to the other side of the airport to check-in. Tick, tock, the clock counted down. With only minutes till check-in closed, I made it to the counter…where a dozen fat, useless pricks were flobbing around in front of me. To make it worse, another half-dozen chubsters pushed in front of me, claiming they were there with some prick in front of me. I told them to get fucked. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The check-in time passed. I’d missed my flight. I wouldn’t make it to Kuala Besut in time for the last boat. I’d be stuck in a rubbish little town for the night rather than a beautiful island paradise. I might even get raped. And all because of the incompetence and selfishness of others.
And then an angel appeared. A spunky young chick walked over and asked if anyone desperately needed to check in, and then took me to an emergency counter. I handed over my details, and the girl smiled. Hoo-fucken-ray, I made it onto the plane just as it was about to taxi out! I didn’t get the spunky young chick’s name, but ya can’t win ’em all.
With that out of the way, the flight was relaxing, and before long I was in delightful Kota Bharu. I say it’s delightful, but I wouldn’t have a clue, because I jumped in a cab and pointed him towards the village of Besut, an hour south. As the towns and villages rolled past, I was obvious the eastern side of the island is very different from the west. Almost everybody was in traditional islamic dress and mosques decorated the skyline.
I’d heard that Kuala Besut was a boring little nothing place that was only worth staying at if you missed the last boat to the islands, and they weren’t wrong. I had a decent amount of time to kill there till I set sail, and after five minutes I was bored out of my skull. There’s one main road with a handful of shops, a couple of deserted side streets, a polluted beach and… that’s it. There wasn’t even an ATM, which was kind of shitty since I knew there wouldn’t be one on the Perhentians, and I barely had enough dosh in my wallet to pay for my accommodation and food. Shit.
The boat finally rocked up, I dragged my suitcase onto it, and we set out into the blue. And, as we drew close to the Perhentians, it was astonishingly beautiful. I’ve been to Thailand, Vietnam and Newcastle, but nothing could prepare me for the unspeakable glory of these islands. Rainforest-covered mountains climbed out of crystal-clear water before my eyes. Thousands of fish danced below me, while cute little huts hugged the beach, with just a smattering of suntanned visitors wandering along the sand or snorkeling. It was like a computer screensaver come to life, but I definitely wasn’t sitting at my desk.
The little boat dropped off a handful of people at different beaches, and then we puttered along to Petani Beach, which was perhaps the most wonderful of them all. At the eastern end a dozen bright red bungalows ran up the hill and disappeared into the forest. In the middle sat six tiny, rustic huts that looked like they’d been washed up in the last high tide – my accommodation. Not a person was to be seen, and it was exactly what I’d hoped it would be. It was, in a word, paradise.
The captain of the boat honked his horn and a little Malaysian dude came rushing out of one of the huts. He dived into a dinghy and came out to meet us, and I carefully stepped into his ride, making sure not to fall into the bright blue ocean beneath me.
He introduced himself as Ebu, and after a short but fun blast, I was dragging my can-filled suitcase along the most wonderful beach I’d ever seen.
I walked into a hut that looked like it must’ve been the front office, and was appalled to see a bloke choking the chicken in his living room. What, no, don’t have such a dirty mind! He wasn’t masturbating, he was actually choking a chicken so he could cook it for his dinner. After Ebu raced over to tell me I’d just wandered into some strangers house uninvited, he led me to my room and handed me a towel and a snorkel set. No key, but then a key wouldn’t be much use when my door didn’t have a lock on it.
Wasting no time, I changed into my boardies and raced the 15m to the beach, then dived into the water. It was wonderfully warm, and incredibly relaxing after a long day of travelling, but I wasn’t here to splash around like a downie in a bath, I was here to see some fish! And shit, did I see some fish! Just a few metres from the shore was a reef that was absolutely crawling with thousands upon thousands of the scaly little bastards. There were clown fish, blue fish… ah, red fish. I even saw a sea cucumber, but enough about my penis.
Life under the surface of the water was every bit as wondrous as the mountains and beaches that rose above it, but far, far busier. I spent over an hour just following fish around, taking photos and generally just floating around with a big, goofy look on my face. When I finally got out I relaxed on the beach, dividing my attention between my book and the spunky, bikini-clad babes spread out on the towels next to me. I got so turned on that I almost had to rub my sea cucumber.
With the sun setting, I had a cold shower and headed over to Petani Beach’s only restaurant, a wonderful little wooden shack that’s completely open to the beach and made entirely of driftwood. The sunset was astonishing, and after a seafood dinner I decided to see what the island offered in the way of nightlife.
There’s only two ways off Petani Beach at that time of night – a bush path to the east, and one to the west. Both were pitch black and scary-looking, but I took the one to the west and walked blindly through the gloom, with only my mobile phone for light. After an hour I found the main backpacker beach, which wasn’t exactly Surfers Paradise, but there were a few little bars that served the liquid medicine I required – beer, glorious fucken beer! And there were also girls, glorious fucken girls!
An hour later I was shitfaced and dancing like a fucktard on the beach, when one of the hot Germans from Petani walked up and started dancing with me.
“Hello,” she said in a voice that made me think she wanted to either suck my dick till my eyes exploded, or murder me. “My friend and I, we see you back at resort. You masturbate in water?”
“Uh, yeah,” I blushed.
“Were you thinking of us.”
“What were you thinking about us doing.”
“I was thinking about slamming you harder than a sledgehammer into the Berlin wall.” Smooth.
Good old-fashioned romance won the day, and the chick said we should probably get back to our shacks – and that her mate should come with us. Ooh la la, as the Germans say.
Things were looking great for the Row Show, and I would’ve had a great night if it wasn’t for that bloody hour-long walk through the darkness. My torch gave up halfway back, the moon wasn’t nearly strong enough to light our way, and it wasn’t long before Helga and Eva (or whatever their fucken names are) tripped over a root and slid down a muddy slope, ending up in the ocean at the bottom. I, of course, acted like a perfect gentleman and laughed my arse off, which obviously wasn’t the correct response, because when we got back they went into Ebu’s hut instead of mine.
Easily confused, those Germans.
I wrote this back in May, 2012. I wish it was still May, 2012.
Brunei is an incredible and surprising place, full of beauty and wonder, so how did I end up sleeping next to the weirdest, grossest, creepiest bastard in the whole country? I woke up early to a sunny morning, scoffed a balanced breakfast of a packet of chips and a can of Red Bull, then heard the first signs of someone else being in my hotel – a couple having a noisy, grunty root in the next room. Shit, they were having a good time! They were knocking furniture over and I could hear the bloke screaming, “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming… wait, no I’m not… oh, I just did!” at the top of his lungs. I had a chuckle to myself, and then grabbed my stuff and stepped out the door.
Just as I was locking up, the door next to me burst open and a fat, bald, sweaty bloke wearing only a tiny pair of undies fell out of it, panting, then gave me a wink.
“Bloody hell, mate, you and your girlfriend sounded like you were having a good time,” I grinned.
“Oh yeah… my… girlfriend,” he replied in an American accent, looking round suspiciously.
He introduced himself as Cled and stuck out his hand. I shook it happily, then asked him where his girlfriend was.
“You’re shaking her,” he laughed, and I snatched my hand away.
“Well, gotta run!” he chuckled. “Miss Righty was just the warm-up! Now it’s Miss Lefty’s turn, and she’s one kinky bitch!” I watched his slimy, bulbous body disappear back into his sex grotto, vomited heavily into a pot plant, then went down to meet my tour bus.
Wait, tour bus? No, no, no! Turns out I’m the only person in whole city who actually wanted to go on a tour, so I was on my own with two locals, in their car. Well, at least I’d get personalised service.
I can’t for the life of me remember their names, so I’ll just call them Cheech and Chong, for no reason other than the fact I think it’s funny because smoking pot is punishable by death in Brunei and they almost certainly don’t smoke the herb. Anyway, they were good blokes, and pointed out a bunch of cool stuff as we drove out of Bandar and into the countryside… which took about 10 minutes. It’s not exactly a big city.
We hooned through forests, occasionally passing cars going the other way. As we travelled further into the middle of nowhere, it occurred to me that Cheech and Chong could easily shoot me in the head and take everything I had (about $25 in Brunei cash and a half-eaten packet of Twisties). But they didn’t, luckily. Instead they took me into some sorta nature park and took me for a tour through some sorta boring museum. You know the type – photos of animals, a few stuffed beasties and fuck-all else. There was, however, a great view from the back deck, out of a crocodile-infested lake.
From there, the boys took me for a quick bushwalk, pointing out the various trees and vines and ferns, and what they were used for in olde-timey medicine (for some reason, most were used to give old blokes stiffies. I though about grabbing some for Cled, but decided it would be like handing a tin of petrol and a box of matches to a pyromaniac). The weird thing was that the trees and shrubs were very, very similar to the patches of rainforest back in Gosford – it felt like I was strolling around in the bush back home, which was comforting. I didn’t find any filthy old sploodge-covered pornos here, though, which was disappointing.
Next stop was a truly breathtaking lake, with a rickety old wooden footbridge taking us across to the other side. Bizarrely, there was a toll of a few cents to cross, and my guards dropped the cash into an old ice cream container that was tended by no-one. In Australia 1) no-one would pay the toll if there wasn’t anyone there and 2) any cash in the bucket would be stolen, along with the bucket. Brunei, eh, what a place!
We ended up on a tiny island with a few picnic tables, and Cheech told me traditional story about a giant turtle while he had a ciggie. When he got to the part of the story where some dude supposedly gathered up a bunch of wood and built a ladder to the moon, I wondered whether he had more in common with his namesake than I’d given him credit for.
It was a truly beautiful spot, though. Still water all around us, running into deep rainforest, with a handful of rotting sheds standing like ghosts amongst the green. The absolute silence was broken only by occasional boats puttering through the sunshine. I would’ve liked a swim… if the water wasn’t full of bloodthirsty crocodiles.
I could’ve stayed there all day, enjoying the view and chatting to the boys, but time was marching on and I was getting astronomically hungry. Back into the car, a drive through more forest, and we were at a near-deserted shopping centre in a tiny, nameless village. It’s kinda earie just how few people there are in this country. We ducked into a restaurant and I ordered some sort of traditional chicken meal and a giant glass of tea, which came with the ingredients – tea, milk, brown sugar etc – layered, and tasted great.
Chong didn’t have a lot to say, but Cheech was more than happy to talk about sport, work and drinking with me. Drinking, but isn’t this a dry country?
As a Christian, it’s cool for Cheech to drink in private, and he can bring in 12 cans of beer across the border from Malaysia every 48 hours. So what he likes to do is drive out to the nearest border, where a bunch of pubs cling together. From there he gets absolutely shithoused, dumps a couple of six-packs in the boot and weaves his way home.
“Don’t you worry about getting breath tested?” I asked.
“It’s a dry country,” he replied with a grin. “We don’t have breath tests.”
Shit, this place gets better and better!
With that, the tour was over bar the ride home. It wasn’t a great tour – and pretty disappointing compared to the trip I’d wanted to go on, which involved a canoe ride down a river and a walk along a boardwalk through the jungle canopy – but the lads made it a fun day and I even handed them a tip at the end.
I had time for a quick nap and a dip in the pool, then it was back into bustlin’ Bandar for a proper squiz at that water village. This time, rather than dipping my toe into it, I plunged head-first into the maze of brightly-coloured huts that stretched out over the water for as far as I could see.
There’s a specific ‘tourist’ area of the village, and I certainly wasn’t in it, and as I wandered further into the belly of the beast I felt more and more out of place. But not once did I feel anything close to fear, or as if I was in danger. Everybody smiled at me, said hello, waved, followed me around chatting. There’s no real poverty out there at all, just a peaceful lifestyle and happy people.
In the middle of the shacks rose another huge, golden mosque, which looked both completely out-of-place and incredibly fitting at the same time. Brunei really is a wonderfully surprising country, and not in any way how I suspected. Those visions of a barren, Middle Eastern-style place were as wrong as a Wayne Swan budget.
With the sun plunging below the skyline and the village rapidly descending into darkness, I hit the frog and got out of there. With walkways going this way and that, and the village turning in on itself, I didn’t think I’d make it out without the fading light of the Asian sun.
I took another wander along the waterfront, again marveling at the speed boats zipping around, before stopping off at the same restaurant as the night before for a bite. This time I added a bucket of chips, so by the end I was as full as a fat girl’s shoe.
It was nice just sitting there by the water, watching happy locals wander about and enjoying the incredibly laid-back atmosphere. If only I had a pretty girl there with me, it would’ve been perfect. Ladies? Anyone? Hello!
I took one last walk around the town, headed back to the hotel, grabbed my towel and went down for a final swim before knocking off for the night. Of course, the pool was deserted… except for a blubbery figure in a dark corner.
“Cled! How’s it going, bro?” I asked, and the chubby pervert let out a pained hello. He was pushed up against one wall of the pool, and as I got closer I could see that he was struggling with something, as if he was trying to get out of the water but couldn’t.
“You right over there, broski?” I enquired, putting down my towel.
“Yes, yes, feel free to leave me alone,” he spat, and waved me off. Something was obviously going on, so I walked closer and fuck me dead if Cled wasn’t buck naked, his arse cheeks shimmering like two heavily-cratered moons under the water! And then I realised why he was so panicked and embarrassed – his dick was stuck in the pool filter!
“Don’t be embarrassed, dude,” I laughed. “Who hasn’t decided to fuck a hotel pool filter and ended up getting their schlong sucked into it?”
He was red and sweaty and telling me to get out of there, but I couldn’t leave the poor prick stuck like that, so I went in and told the bloke at reception what had happened – that Cled must’ve slipped, lost his trousers and somehow fallen penis-first into the filter.
“Mr Cled must be very clumsy,” he chuckled, “because that’s the third time he’s done that this week!”
With a swim out of the question, I packed my back and lay back for a snooze, with visions of the beautiful Perhentian Islands – and the next day’s horribly long trip to get there – floating around in my brain like a fat dude with his dick caught in a pool filter.
I originally wrote this in May, 2012, shortly after washing my right hand with bleach.
Just when you think Malaysian public transport can’t get any worse… it does. I woke up to a beautiful day, packed my stuff and headed downstairs to my taxi. It took me through the busy streets of Kuala Lumpur, and I was surprised one last time by how weird the place was. A mix of first world and third world, eastern and western, good stuff and utter, utter shit. Of course, we got stuck in traffic, but I’d left myself over two hours to make the trip, which should be enough, right? After all, I can make it from Gosford to Sydney airport in less than that, and that’s twice as far and Aussie public transport is the drizzling shits.
The airport train was slower than a stoned turtle. I rolled through the outskirts of KL with one eye on the skyline and the other on my watch. It dropped me in the middle of nowhere (and, thankfully, nowhere near fucking Kepong) and I transferred to a run-down bus that was shaking and shuddering like a drug addict with no smack. It sat there, and sat there, and sat there, before finally crawling off towards the el-cheapo budget airport where my plane sat. I made it to the check-in with only minutes to spare, and an hour later I was in the air, flying towards the tiny country of Brunei (or, to give it its full title – Nation of Brunei, the Abode of Peace. Fancy!).
I really had no idea what to expect with Brunei. I hadn’t even heard of the place until a few months ago, when I’d drunkenly booked a cheap return flight there after an all-day session at the pub. I soon found out it’s a pretty hardcore muslim place, and that alcohol is basically banned, which worried me. I had visions of a locked-down, militant country where I’d be under constant surveillance, and if I so much as farted I’d end up getting beheaded on the 6 o’clock news. I’ve never met another person who’s visited there, and every time I mention my trip there the response is, “Why?”
But just like that time I went out on a date with that chick whose internet dating profile looked suspiciously like Delta Goodrem, and who turned out to look like a fatter, hairier Ron Jeremy, things didn’t end up the way I expected.
Brunei and, more specifically, its capital Bandar Seri Begawan, is a delightful place. With only 400,000 people in the whole country, it’s very quiet, quite rural, and everyone seems pretty rich. The CBD of Bandar has maybe four or five streets and reminded me of a little Aussie country town, which was a refreshing change after the monstrous metropolises I’ve been to.
There are so many trees around, and everything is so neat and tidy. Every couple of hundred metres there’s a bloke trimming a hedge in the middle of the road, or chopping back weeds by the side of it. I suppose massive oil reserves coupled with a tiny population allows that sorta thing.
It really was a culture shock after the congestion and smog of KL. By the time I got to my hotel it was getting on towards four, so with the sun sliding down and less than 48 hours to explore this little country, I quickly got changed in my room and prepared to go out for a walk.
Not that I’d want to spend a lot of time in my hotel room even if I could. It’s tiny – far smaller than the bathroom I’d enjoyed in KL – and looks like it was last been renovated in the 70s. It’s not horrible or scary like the places in Beijing or Penang, but it’s not exactly a Ritz cracker.
The building is weirdly quiet, too. It’s four storeys high, with 15 or 20 rooms on each level, but I haven’t see or hear one other guest since I got here. That’s outrageous! Anyway, before I knew it I was strolling through beautiful downtown Bandar.
Sure, it was getting late on a Sunday, but I couldn’t believe how quiet it was. Only a handful of (shiny new) cars rolled past me as I walked past a collection of tidy if unspectacular buildings. There were a few temple-looking things here and there, and then I turned a corner and FUCKEN WOW! A massive, golden mosque stood in front of me, shimmering in the fading sunlight. The Sultan Omar Ali Saifuddin Mosque (snappy name!) was wildly impressive, and I spent plenty of time exploring it and taking photos. There was a weird concrete boat standing in the moat that surrounded it, so I walked out to it and danced around on it like a special person. It was beautiful and awe-inspiring, and the whole time I was there I didn’t see a single other tourist.
You might think that would make me feel further from my own world than anything, but it hasn’t been like that at all. Brunei simply feels so close to ‘normal’ society, and so incredibly safe and tolerant, that I really do feel at home.
Bizarrely, right next to this wonderfully expensive and over-the-top temple was a collection of run-down little shacks standing over the water. I’d read about Bandar’s famous floating village, and decided to head into the slums for a geek. Only they weren’t slums at all. I only went a brief way into the maze of raised walkways and home-made houses, but it was enough to see that, even here, the people were well-off and healthy and happy. They wore decent clothes (almost exclusively English soccer shirts, for some reason) and each little shack had a satellite dish. Even the shitty areas of Brunei are better than the best bits of most Asian countries.
With the day drawing to a close, I decided to leave the rest of the village for tomorrow and find somewhere to get a feed. I took a stroll along the river and into Bandar’s main shopping distric, which consisted of 20 or 30 little shops by the water. Speedboats criss-crossed the river, and the water village took on an almost mythical quality across the water as the day gave way to night. I found a delightful little eatery overlooking the river, and ordered what I was pretty sure was a nasi goreng, along with a can of Sprite. My body was very, very happy that I wasn’t pouring anymore beer into it, and it was kind of a unique situation to not be on the piss.
My meal was great, and afterwards I explored a freaky-looking cemetary across the road. With that out of the way, there was nothing to do but take a very relaxing walk through the almost-deserted township back to my completely-deserted hotel. I booked a tour for the next morning from a handsome gay man, then took a refreshing dip in the pool, which was surprisingly nice. It wasn’t nearly as Austen Tayshuss as the place in KL, but was surrounded by tropical trees and plants and was very nice. I also didn’t have to put up with any aggressive barmen trying to cuddle me.
With the whole city basically asleep by 10, and not another person in my building, I watched a few episodes of Californication and turned in for the night. A whole afternoon without being offered sex, attacked, chased – I could get used to this place.
I wrote this back in May, 2012, while completely sober.
Another day, another super-exciting place to visit in Kuala Lumpur! Well, perhaps super-exciting is going a bit far, but I did have my sights set on a place called the Bhatu Caves, which promised a gigantic golden statue, a giant staircase and, well, some caves.
It wasn’t too far from my hotel – about 12km – and I decided to take public transport. After all, it had worked in Honkers, and this place is almost as first-world as there, right?
The first part of journey was easy, and involved a 3km walk to the train station, which I undertook while munching on treats from the local bakery and sipping Mountain Dew. It gave me a great look at the city – I walked through nice parts of town, shit parts of town, across busy streets, past a river and through a series of underpass tunnels that were crawling with rats.
The train station was little more than a shed, but I was able to buy my ticket without fuss and was directed to the platform. Too easy. My train came, I jumped on, and it started rattling out towards the Caves. It was a weird train. It looked like one of the nice carriages I’d seen in Hong Kong and Singapore, but like most things in KL it was a case of them trying to make a Lamborhini when they only had the budget for a Kia, and ending up with some sort of bizarre Frankenstein’s monster. It rattled and rolled, the speaker system barely worked and it just felt cheap. It was also packed to the brim with scary-looking Indian blokes.
About 15 minutes in, I noticed that the stations we were stopping at were kinda sorta on the wrong line, and I was heading in the wrong direction, out into the wilds of KL. I jumped off at the next stop, at the delightfully-named Kepong. Kepong is a dump, with nothing but shacks and chickens. So I sat on the platform to wait for a train back to where I’d come from… and waited…. and waited. The sign above the track said the next train was 15 minutes away, then 45, then 17. It was at this point that I realised the Malaysian public transport system is even worse than Sydney’s.
Finally a train came, I scooted on with more smelly Indians, and I ended up back where I’d started. But with my extra experience, it would be easy to get the right train, yeah? I mean, there was a train with a sign in the window saying ‘Bhatu Caves’, an electronic sign above it saying ‘Bhatu Caves’ and the voiceover when I hopped on said it was going to Bhatu Caves.
Fifteen minutes later, I was back in Kepong. Nobody wants to go to Kepong, let along twice in one day. Determined to avoid another trip on the train system from hell, I managed to cross a sewer, go through a slum and find a couple of taxis by the side of the road.
The first taxi had a tall, thin middle eastern bloke in it who looked like Osama bin Laden. Hell, it probably was Osama bin Laden. Osama made no attempt to shake off my suspicions that he was one of the world’s most evil men, either,’cos he tried to rip me off by saying the caves were 25km away and he’d need a bucketload of dosh to take me there. I thanked him for being a cunt and moved onto the next taxi driver, who was more than happy to take me the 5km to my destination – and charge me one-sixth of what that terrorist-looking bastard had.
I finally made it to the Bhatu Caves and, yeah, the big golden statue was pretty cool. And, sure, there were heaps of steps and they were pretty steep. But after the effort I’d been through to get there, they would’ve had to have a fire-breathing dragon with big tits out the front to truly impress me.
I scoffed down a couple of packets of Mamee Monster Noodle Snacks (who would expect to find them in a place like that?) and took a stroll around at the base of the stairs, taking some photos before entering the caves. There were heaps of pigeons, and heaps of pigeon shit, but the highlight came when a monkey decided to get a bit fresh with one of the tourists. I was walking behind this middle-aged bird, snapping away, when this little monkey dude raced over to her. She looked hesitant but not too upset, until the monkey ducked under her skirt, reached up, grabbed her undies and yanked them down. Bloody hell, did she scream! Every eye in the place turned to her and watched in horror as this little bloke pulled down her beige granny undies, tore them off from around her legs and scampered off with them ON HIS HEAD.
Shit, if only it was so easy for me to get a lady’s knickers off.
He wasn’t the only sicko monkey in the place, though. I started climbing the near-vertical steps to the caves, more and more monkeys were climbing around and dancing and acting like arse clowns. Then I saw a cute little monkey, probably a baby, being stalked by a huge, ugly prick of a monkey that was easily three times its size. Oh shit, I was gunna see monkey-on-monkey rape!
But the little fella spun around, stepped to the right, circled the huge bully and started FUCKING HIM UP THE ARSE. The big monkey didn’t know what the shit was happening, and I just pissed myself and took a photo.
The top of the staircase provided a great view of the city, and opened up into a massive cave inside the mountain. I walked in, and the temperature immediately dropped. It was huge in there, like a cathedral carved out by God himself. The main cave led to another set of stairs, which took me to a smaller, yet no less impressive cave with an open roof that looked up towards the clear blue sky. It was all quite beautiful, really.
After an uneventful trip back to town and a meal of pork balls in Chinatown, I went back to the hotel for a swim (Monty sat in a corner, watching me and brooding, the whole time – then stuck his finger up at me when I left. What the fuck is that dude’s deal?) and then hit the piss. With a trip to the dry country of Brunei the next morning, I had to wipe out my remaining stock of alcohol, so I knocked back the rest of my vodka and headed out into the city for a decent meal and a few beers at a nice pub.
I found neither. In my drunken state I ended up at Dipak’s Indian Chow Down, gobbling a bowl of curry that looked like it had already been digested – twice – and another can of that jelly drink. I could feel the salmonella sliding down my throat with every bite, and every person in the place stared at me while I whoofed it down. Total cost of the meal? About $1.50, although it probably took five years off my life expectancy. As far as I was concerned, the countdown to shitting myself was on, so I went out into the night, keen for a beer.
I dodged the places with ladyboys out the front and went into a neon-lit joint that had the wrestling on the telly. No sooner had I received my overpriced beer than a gigantic, black, erm… woman, stomped up to me and pushed her monstrous boobzillas in my face. She outweighed me by a good 30kg and had me backed into a corner, so I had no choice but to talk to her.
Her name was Fantasy, she was from Tanzania and she ran a business management courses in KL. Yeah, sure. I told her I was Kevin from New Zealand and I was a professional Billy Ray Cyrus impersonator. As I’ve said before, the ladies love the Row-Row, but even I was shocked when she straight-up said she wanted to fuck me. Well, that’s not quite how she said it.
“How about we go back ta your digs and I wrap mah big black pussy around your delicious white cock?” she asked. I tried to watch the wrestling, but she wasn’t gunna give up.
“I’ll eat your arse. Suck your cock till your eyes pop out. Fuck yo’ white cock wit mah black asshole. Go on, feel mah titties, they yours, Kevin, they yours. You do what you want to them.”
She asked so nicely that I thought, what the fuck, and gave those bad boys a good squeeze. My hands have never looked so small – it was like a couple of little white spiders crawling around on the fucken Olgas. It was plenty of fun, but a stupid move, because it kinda sorta made her think that I actually wanted to take her back to her place and, erm, let her lick my arse.
She leaned in for a kiss and visions of the thousands of arses she’d eaten ran through my mind, and I stepped back just before she could get me. She reached out with a giant fist, and when she wrapped it around my arm it was like getting grabbed by King Kong.
“Give Mama Fantasy as kiss,” she growled, and leaned in. “I eat yo’ arse, I eat yo’ arse, give Mama Fantasy a kiss!” With nowhere to run, I was doomed… until someone called the thing’s name, and she turned around. This was my only chance! I dashed for the door and hid around the corner, and when Fantasy saw I’d done the bolt, she was ropable… for about three seconds, when she sidled up to a bloke in his late 60s and put her hand straight down his pants and started jerking him off. Damn, and I thought it was true love.
It was getting late and I had a big trip in the morning, so I decided to head home. The whole area was absolutely crawling with ladyboys, and I got my cocked grabbed by a tall Oriental with a mini skirt and an Adam’s apple. I was so appalled that I walked around the block and through the same patch, just to make sure it had really happened. And then I walked around the block and back through there again, just to be certain.
After an hour or so of getting free handies… uh, I mean being VIOLATED by ladyboys, I called it a night, and was ready to say buh bye to Kuala Lumpur.
I wrote this back in May, 2012, probably while waiting for a train in Kepong.
My hotel stands in the shadows of the Kuala Lumpur Tower, so today I swaggered over there and climbed to the top of it. It offered a grouse view out over a city that is tropical, pretty and clean, but also a little bit bland. After half an hour of gawking out at the skyscrapers I was ready to head back down. but, wanting to get my $15 worth, I walked round and round and round, feeling like a goldfish in a bowl.
When I got to the bottom I had the pleasure of visiting the world’s worst zoo, which consisted of three or four cages filled with sad-looking lizards and turtles, and a chubby bloke who followed me around everywhere shouting things that I didn’t understand. At least I didn’t get bitten by anything rabies-infected… or raped by the chubby bloke.
I escaped the Tower and wandered south towards the centre of the city. It was quite a nice walk, thanks to KL’s wide pathways and abundance of trees, and it was great to be able to walk through a major city without having people pushing me around or spitting everywhere. Beijing and Shanghai, you could learn a thing or two.
I eventually made it to the city’s Chinatown, which seems to be some sort of in-joke because the place is actually full of Indians (the curry-scented kind, not the red ones who wear feathers in their hair and dance around fires). The whole place is basically one huge market, with scammers and cheap knock-offs everywhere. I bought a couple of shirts and got the fuck out of there before someone tried to stab me, exploring some of the quieter streets before ducking into a little Indonesian restaurant that served up a delicious nasi goreng.
With no sign of public transport except for a very tall, very skinny Indian man screaming “Klang, Klang, Klang” by the side of a beaten-up bus (I assume it either went to Klang, or he really likes the villainous brain-creature from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles but gets his Rs and Ls backwards), I set off back home.
I’d heard good things about KL, but it really is kind of a third-world shithole spruced up with a few snazzy buildings to give the world the impression that it’s a wonderful place. Getting out and walking the streets blows away those misconceptions, though.
After half filling a bottle of F&N Ice Cream Soda soft drink (aka the greatest beverage of all time) with cheap, duty free vodka, I slipped into my sexiest g-string and took the elevator back to the pool for a (very) quick dip before they shut the place down and converted it into the shittiest nightclub in the universe once more. The whole time, my waiter from the evening before – whose name badge, I saw now, claimed his name was Monty, which is an odd name for an Asian – sat on a stool and glared at me for not giving him a tip. At one point he even made that throat-cutting gesture. It would’ve been more threatening if he wasn’t dressed in an all-white jump suit, as if he’d just come from the set of a homosexual gang bang porno.
I dried off and started walking back to the lift when Monty minced over to me, blocking the way. “You know,” he lisped. “You did not tip me last night.”
“Here’s a tip,” I replied, “get the fuck out of my way or I’ll push you in the pool.”
Monty looked shocked but impressed, then tuned away sharply. As I walked past, I saw tears in his eyes and he reached for me, as if he needed a cuddle. I thought about making good on my promise of pushing him in the pool anyway, but realised he’d probably take that as me coming onto him and went back to my room instead. Monty, eh? Cunty would be a more appropriate name.
I drank in my room for a while, danced around ‘cos there was so much space, and when I was hungry I set out to explore the culinary delights of KL. And explored and explored and explored, ‘cos I couldn’t find any restaurants that were open. I’d get a better meal at an anorexia support group. Hours were passing and I was that hungry I could’ve eaten a bowl of porridge out of Magda Szubanski’s smoo, when I ended up underneath the Petronas Towers. Now, KL might not be the fanciest town in the world, but those towers are truly impressive and cool. But first things first, I was hungry, so I wandered into the shopping centre underneath.
It was a huge place, but almost deserted by the time I got there. I went up elevators, down escalators, round and round past high-quality clothes shops and places that sold watches and jewellery and crystal and other stuff I couldn’t afford, and wouldn’t buy even if I had $100 notes falling out my arse. Not a lot of food, though. Not a lot of food.
I finally found a restaurant full of dudes in suits and women in fancy dresses and looked down at what I was wearing; cheap Heineken beer singlet, shorts and thongs. Had a bit of a stain on the front of the shorts from where I’d pissed on myself by accident. Fuck it, I was hungry.
When I walked in, every eye in the place burnt holes into me. It was as if a turd had crawled out of the toilet, slopped his way in and asked for a steak. I took a seat and a snobby waiter sauntered over and dumped a menu on my table before scuttling away like a crab, as if he was afraid I’d give him leprosy or, worse still, try to talk to him.
Upper-class wankery aside, the food was ace. I ordered some spring rolls and a Malaysian chicken stir-fry with a big glass of beer, and it all tasted delicious. Sure, it was expensive and I had to eat it while the suit-wearing poofs around me recoiled in horror, but it was nice. When I was done I walked out without leaving a tip, and a little Malaysian fella raced straight over to where I was sitting with a bottle of disinfectant and removed any trace of the dude who dared walk in wearing a singlet.
From there, I took a walk around the Towers, which really are quite beautiful when they’re all lit up on a clear night. They’re absolutely monumental, and with all the lights on them look like a couple of jagged slices of platinum jutting out of the earth.
With that piece of essential sightseeing out of the way, I winged my way back home, stopping in at a filthy Indian restaurant called Dipak’s on the way for a can of soft drink that, inexplicably, had little bits of jelly in it. A bloke who I assumed to be Dipak asked me if I wanted a curry, and I took one look at the luke-warm slop concealing in a tray and felt my stomach churn. I’ve had enough food poisoning for one trip, thanks.
I originally wrote this back in May, 2012, while being chased by a rabies-infected monkey with a big, red arse.
The good people of Langkawi, Malaysia were thoroughly sick of me by the time I left. But, just as one should never count one’s chickens before they hatch, one should also not breathe a sigh of relief before the drunken Aussie is safely packed away on a plane to somewhere else.
I woke up early feeling fantastic, and headed down to the beach for a final swim at this island paradise before heading to the airport for my 1:30pm flight to Kuala Lumpur. When I got there, the sun was shining, the water was sparkling and delightful, and my waitress friend and her dopey husband were still in a foul mood.
After drying off and spending a very pleasant half hour sitting on a sun lounge reading a Joe Lansdale book, I went back to my room, packed my shit, dropped my bags at the front desk and then took one last stroll up the street to buy another bottle of vodka before leaving. I wouldn’t wanna get thirsty.
On the way back I was enjoying the sunshine and the peaceful ways of the little island, when I heard someone shouting and saw Sonjay running out of his shop and straight towards me. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, and from the look on his face he could’ve wanted to either shoot me or root me, so I piss-bolted back to my resort, grabbed my bags and tossed them into the back of a taxi, slammed the door and ordered the driver to gun it just as Sonjay reached the car. Despite being a fat little bloke who looked like he’d work up a sweat just thinking about going to the fridge for another can of Kingfisher, he kept up with the taxi for a good 100m, banging on my window and yelling at me. As we finally pulled away he fell to his knees in the dirt and I heart him scream, “I love yooooouuuuu!”
A few minutes later I was at the shed optimistically known as Langkawi International Airport, and ready to check in. Tragically, my suitcase was slightly over the weight limit, requiring a repack. So I stepped to the side and started moving stuff from my suitcase to my backpack, while a bunch of burqa-wearing hardcore muslims stood around glaring at me. When I finally had it in order, I picked up my suitcase and immediately realised I hadn’t zipped it up, causing all my shit to fall out on the ground. But that’s not the worst bit. For the last few days I’d been collecting some of my beer cans because they look cool and are a great reminder of the monumental amount of piss I’ve been sinking. So about 20 empty beer cans spilled out along with my dirty undies, clanging on the floor right in front of about 50 people who reckon alcohol is the devil’s drink. Fuck. Me.
The flight to KL was uneventful enough, and soon I was at the shed that’s known as Kuala Lumpur Low Cost Terminal. Bloody hell, what a shithole of a place. I got on a bus that took me to the middle of nowhere, where I caught a fast train that wasn’t very fast at all to KL Sentral station and, after seeing a big sign for some fancy new Burger King vain-clogger, stopped in for a bite. I love traditional Asian cousine!
A short taxi ride through scenic downtown Kuala Lumpur – and it really is a nice place, with palms everywhere and snazzy buildings and lots of pretty girls - and I was at my home for the next three days, the Pacific Regency Suites. And it was bloody fantastic! My room was damn near the size of my house, with a gigantic king bed, kitchen, huge TV and absolutely massive bedroom. It made the place in Shanghai look like the place in Penang.
I took a quick stroll around town and it was pleasant, if a little sterile and surprisingly quiet. After travelling through a bunch of Chinese cities that were as busy as Penny Wong in a roomful of dildos, it was nice to have a little bit of space. It was getting a bit late, though, and I wanted to have a swim in the hotel’s rooftop pool, so I just grabbed some mixers for my vodka and headed back.
The pool was pretty cool, with an incredibly decent view over the city. At seven it shuts down and the whole place converts into what is supposedly a very nice nightclub, which I intended to check out later on, so I dried off and went back to my room for a quick drinkie.
Alright, so it was more like a half-litre bottle of vodka drinkie, and by the time I went back up to the club I was primed for a good night. Unfortunately, the Luna Bar was absolutely shithouse. There was thumping techno music, but no dancefloor. In fact, there was nowhere for anyone to congregate, forcing people to sit in individual booths in the darkness, meaning that chatting to strangers was completely out of the question. Good news for any single women in the place, bad news for me. I had a couple of overpriced cocktails (in beautiful plastic glasses!) and fiddled about with my phone (that’s not a euphemis for masturbation), then got the fuck out of there and back to my room. And when I paid, old mate cracked the shits ‘cos I didn’t leave a tip! They’re lucky I didn’t take a dump in their pool.
After that, it took me about 14 seconds to fall asleep, which is a good thing because I had a trek ahead of me the next day. Oh, bloody hell, did I have a trek in store!
I originally wrote this back in May, 2012. If I wasn’t so drunk right now, I’d remember the exact date. Giz a beer?