Don't worry about that twerp, says Andy, 'he's only a driver. His boss stays at the Riverside.'
The twerp was an upcountry Iban bumkin and the Riverside is an upmarket hotel and the one I'm staying at is a budget hotel.
So all the talk about being a government official and somone important was just hot air?
'Basically.'
Andy is a Malay.
He says the upcoming election will be a one horse race.
In terms of check mate, it couldn't be any tidier.
'He runs all the important posts,' says Andy. 'He controls police and military. And who is running up against him? A 92 year old who by all accounts can't remember his name and dribbles over his pulled tea and roti canai.'
The Indians and Chinese will be pissed off when he loses.
'There's no pleasing them.'
You had 16 years of a Muslim Indian Malaysian running your country, surely the Malays want a Malay to run it for a change?
Andy just smiles. Then he laughs. He's always laughing at my jokes.
'Bobby wasn't spared in my Google Maps review,' I say, 'the fucker was as fake as all the other Indian Malaysians.'
And the local Chinese adored him.
'He's from West Malaysia and married a local Sarawakian,' says the Chinese at the food court, below the Indian's backpacker lodge.
Andy's laughing again. He loves these kind of stories. My insights just tickle him pink. I'm bebunking the myth that there's no racism in Borneo. Man, I wasn't born yesterday.
Bobby the fucker, I says. He wasn't spared in my review.
Nor was the other Indian joint down the road.
The food was crap and they forced me into buying their shit.
'That's their way,' says Andy.
My nastiness comes out in the reviews.
I tell them I'll give them raving reviews.
But one little slight, it could be their superior attitude, their rankings drop down in my books.
Surely I have too much time on my hands?
'You are keeping the Malaysians accountable,' says Andy, who thinks it can't be a bad thing.
And the Iban?
'Two faced and trecherous.'
I don't ask him about the Dyak. The lifeguard at the pool is a total stand up guy, so their integrity never comes into question.
'And rightly so,' says the friendly receptionist who works the grave yard shift.
I was telling Andy about how the staff at the supermarket were laughing at me.
And how my Chinese cook downstaris told me I should move rooms.
'Why?'
So that no one knows where I am.
And I confronted them. Why were you laughing at me? And why was the security guard looking unappprovingly at my white paint stained green shorts I bought in Butterworth?
Probably because it looks like cum stains.
'They are paranoid,' said Andy.
What, am I paranoid? I had to make sure what he said.
'They are paranoid.'
And the chef downstairs?
'He's paranoid too.'
I'm all for quick getaways, but having to move rooms within the hotel seems a rediculous precaution.
I told my cook that the police station was only a few doors down and surely I'm not being followed.
'Only saying what I'd do,' says my cook who as far as he knows, no one is tracking me down. He cooks me up fried noodles most nights -- he'll leave two toothpicks on two paper napkins for me. He's well trained, some would even say hospitable.
'If you were being followed, I'd be the first to know,' says Andy who agrees that there's been a spike of paranoia since the elections were called yesterday.
I never told him about the withdrawals I was having from the flu tablets I took the day before the peek of paranoia. He didn't need to know that.
In recognition of his good taste and support I high fived Andy.
When I want the low down on Malaysia, I'll always consult my local Malay. They rarely mince words. It's against their makeup.
The twerp was an upcountry Iban bumkin and the Riverside is an upmarket hotel and the one I'm staying at is a budget hotel.
So all the talk about being a government official and somone important was just hot air?
'Basically.'
Andy is a Malay.
He says the upcoming election will be a one horse race.
In terms of check mate, it couldn't be any tidier.
'He runs all the important posts,' says Andy. 'He controls police and military. And who is running up against him? A 92 year old who by all accounts can't remember his name and dribbles over his pulled tea and roti canai.'
The Indians and Chinese will be pissed off when he loses.
'There's no pleasing them.'
You had 16 years of a Muslim Indian Malaysian running your country, surely the Malays want a Malay to run it for a change?
Andy just smiles. Then he laughs. He's always laughing at my jokes.
'Bobby wasn't spared in my Google Maps review,' I say, 'the fucker was as fake as all the other Indian Malaysians.'
And the local Chinese adored him.
'He's from West Malaysia and married a local Sarawakian,' says the Chinese at the food court, below the Indian's backpacker lodge.
Andy's laughing again. He loves these kind of stories. My insights just tickle him pink. I'm bebunking the myth that there's no racism in Borneo. Man, I wasn't born yesterday.
Bobby the fucker, I says. He wasn't spared in my review.
Nor was the other Indian joint down the road.
The food was crap and they forced me into buying their shit.
'That's their way,' says Andy.
My nastiness comes out in the reviews.
I tell them I'll give them raving reviews.
But one little slight, it could be their superior attitude, their rankings drop down in my books.
Surely I have too much time on my hands?
'You are keeping the Malaysians accountable,' says Andy, who thinks it can't be a bad thing.
And the Iban?
'Two faced and trecherous.'
I don't ask him about the Dyak. The lifeguard at the pool is a total stand up guy, so their integrity never comes into question.
'And rightly so,' says the friendly receptionist who works the grave yard shift.
I was telling Andy about how the staff at the supermarket were laughing at me.
And how my Chinese cook downstaris told me I should move rooms.
'Why?'
So that no one knows where I am.
And I confronted them. Why were you laughing at me? And why was the security guard looking unappprovingly at my white paint stained green shorts I bought in Butterworth?
Probably because it looks like cum stains.
'They are paranoid,' said Andy.
What, am I paranoid? I had to make sure what he said.
'They are paranoid.'
And the chef downstairs?
'He's paranoid too.'
I'm all for quick getaways, but having to move rooms within the hotel seems a rediculous precaution.
I told my cook that the police station was only a few doors down and surely I'm not being followed.
'Only saying what I'd do,' says my cook who as far as he knows, no one is tracking me down. He cooks me up fried noodles most nights -- he'll leave two toothpicks on two paper napkins for me. He's well trained, some would even say hospitable.
'If you were being followed, I'd be the first to know,' says Andy who agrees that there's been a spike of paranoia since the elections were called yesterday.
I never told him about the withdrawals I was having from the flu tablets I took the day before the peek of paranoia. He didn't need to know that.
In recognition of his good taste and support I high fived Andy.
When I want the low down on Malaysia, I'll always consult my local Malay. They rarely mince words. It's against their makeup.
