So far I've got the password for the boutique hotel across from the Long House and now I have the Long House's password.
Sharing wifi passwords is fun. No one will deny you it if they have it.
So if your hotel internet is slow, you know why.
Dam cold, a day or more it will be gone.
The worst of it is behind me, The sneezing and running nose is the tail end.
I'm a local now.
You don't become a local until you get a local cold.
The place I'm staying at is sleeaze city.
Night time is noisy.
I don't fear thugs anymore. When you are living among them, there's a solidarity thing going on.
I'm safe.
Even thugs fear this place.
That's the logic.
The drunk Malay at the longhouse shook my hand about ten times.
He's harmless and is belting out a few Dangdut Indonesian tunes that are cranking out of an old coin-operated jukebox.
I leave my window open and watch the world walk past me.
There's Andy and Mr. Lee, they are off to the Long House because the other joint is closed on a Sunday.
The Long House has a sleazy reputation.
Well I don't know what they say about the Hoover. But I could add some additional information.
Mr. Lu who checked me in is your typical Chinese who likes gambling, hot chicks and falling asleep at the counter.
He works the graveyard shift so I'll be carrying my valuables if I go out.
A Malaysian hangs around the reception area coughing and carrying on. Is she a whore or the cleaner? Or does she double at both? She's cute, big tits, and speaks Chinese. She could be Dayak or Iban.
I met her with Lu today buying some illegal lottery tickets. Her name is Mary. I'd like to get to know you a lot better too.
Though I'm aware, don't shit in your own doorstep, a strict rule I like to adhere to these days. I've been stung too often.
I guess I'll find out soon. Working out new systems always takes work.
I'll get back to you soon.
David has left. He's found a better job.
Cornelius is a young Chinese and his parents own the hotel.
We seem to be getting on well.
'What kind of food you like,' he asks. I can't reply. I'm sneezing. My neck has a kink in it and will no doubt have another one.
I rush to the room for some snot rags.
Then return.
I keep away from Indian food, I tell him. It only aggravates my piles.
He did ask.
I get another handshake from the drunk Malay.
I gather he's a fan of Trump too.
I make a quiet exit.
The Chinese Indonesian who married the owner of the coffee shop has tattoos on her lithe white legs.
Could her shorts be any shorter?
One can only live in hope.
She is always looking at her phone while serving customers.
The two Indonesian staff - the late twenties, a tad overweight, faces that have seen too many ceilings on squeaky beds while fucking for the homeland - copy their boss well. What's good for the goose is good for the gander right?
'What you want? they ask gruffly while looking at their Fuck Book status update. They might even throw in a sigh and roll their eyes. When Miss Cross Eye rolls her eyes, the Malay men seem to get even more turned on.
The Long House clientele is a simple honest bunch who love nothing better than cheap coffee and a cheap fuck.
These Malay men, most likely the poorly paid street sweepers and gardeners, are leering at Miss Cross Eye - she has a handy set of tits under her baggy T-shirt and apron. Yes they wear aprons, isn't that a turn on?
They are starved of female company and these girls are rough as guts. But that doesn't stop us from undressing them with our eyes.
The lithe legged Chinese knows I speak a bit of Indonesian. She announces this for all to hear. Everyone was drunk so I was the only one who caught it.
I can bargain the price down of a whore from 200 000 Rupiah to one hundred, I wanted to tell her.
Then I thought better of it as the Malay man ran after me for one more handshake.
He had no teeth.
'Welcome to Sarawak,' he says.
I was really feeling part of the Long House in more ways than one.
The stories are speaking to me.
One said that I had visited a longhouse.
Technically, I have.
I didn't win the sweepstakes but I got a few passwords.
We are thick as thieves in the dirty part of town.
Sharing wifi passwords is fun. No one will deny you it if they have it.
So if your hotel internet is slow, you know why.
Dam cold, a day or more it will be gone.
The worst of it is behind me, The sneezing and running nose is the tail end.
I'm a local now.
You don't become a local until you get a local cold.
The place I'm staying at is sleeaze city.
Night time is noisy.
I don't fear thugs anymore. When you are living among them, there's a solidarity thing going on.
I'm safe.
Even thugs fear this place.
That's the logic.
The drunk Malay at the longhouse shook my hand about ten times.
He's harmless and is belting out a few Dangdut Indonesian tunes that are cranking out of an old coin-operated jukebox.
I leave my window open and watch the world walk past me.
There's Andy and Mr. Lee, they are off to the Long House because the other joint is closed on a Sunday.
The Long House has a sleazy reputation.
Well I don't know what they say about the Hoover. But I could add some additional information.
Mr. Lu who checked me in is your typical Chinese who likes gambling, hot chicks and falling asleep at the counter.
He works the graveyard shift so I'll be carrying my valuables if I go out.
A Malaysian hangs around the reception area coughing and carrying on. Is she a whore or the cleaner? Or does she double at both? She's cute, big tits, and speaks Chinese. She could be Dayak or Iban.
I met her with Lu today buying some illegal lottery tickets. Her name is Mary. I'd like to get to know you a lot better too.
Though I'm aware, don't shit in your own doorstep, a strict rule I like to adhere to these days. I've been stung too often.
I guess I'll find out soon. Working out new systems always takes work.
I'll get back to you soon.
David has left. He's found a better job.
Cornelius is a young Chinese and his parents own the hotel.
We seem to be getting on well.
'What kind of food you like,' he asks. I can't reply. I'm sneezing. My neck has a kink in it and will no doubt have another one.
I rush to the room for some snot rags.
Then return.
I keep away from Indian food, I tell him. It only aggravates my piles.
He did ask.
I get another handshake from the drunk Malay.
I gather he's a fan of Trump too.
I make a quiet exit.
The Chinese Indonesian who married the owner of the coffee shop has tattoos on her lithe white legs.
Could her shorts be any shorter?
One can only live in hope.
She is always looking at her phone while serving customers.
The two Indonesian staff - the late twenties, a tad overweight, faces that have seen too many ceilings on squeaky beds while fucking for the homeland - copy their boss well. What's good for the goose is good for the gander right?
'What you want? they ask gruffly while looking at their Fuck Book status update. They might even throw in a sigh and roll their eyes. When Miss Cross Eye rolls her eyes, the Malay men seem to get even more turned on.
The Long House clientele is a simple honest bunch who love nothing better than cheap coffee and a cheap fuck.
These Malay men, most likely the poorly paid street sweepers and gardeners, are leering at Miss Cross Eye - she has a handy set of tits under her baggy T-shirt and apron. Yes they wear aprons, isn't that a turn on?
They are starved of female company and these girls are rough as guts. But that doesn't stop us from undressing them with our eyes.
The lithe legged Chinese knows I speak a bit of Indonesian. She announces this for all to hear. Everyone was drunk so I was the only one who caught it.
I can bargain the price down of a whore from 200 000 Rupiah to one hundred, I wanted to tell her.
Then I thought better of it as the Malay man ran after me for one more handshake.
He had no teeth.
'Welcome to Sarawak,' he says.
I was really feeling part of the Long House in more ways than one.
The stories are speaking to me.
One said that I had visited a longhouse.
Technically, I have.
I didn't win the sweepstakes but I got a few passwords.
We are thick as thieves in the dirty part of town.
