The Indians are the most hospitable and fucked up people on the planet. Raj my waiter said his great great grand father fought under Raffles in Indonesia. “He helped rape and pillage the royal family in Jogjakarta.” He says he even has this bravery medal at home.  No one fucks with the Indians, he says. “We came and we conquered. We learned from the best.”

He can’t wait to get back to Singapore and earn some real money.

 The staff have put down the white Christmas Tree and the receptionist has put up the decorations for the upcoming Chinese New Year. The hotel foyer is lit up like China Town with little flashing red light bulbs. But where are the whores?

Each day I sit at my office, an Indian cafe. The sign of Jalan Siunam and the big sign of the Meldrum Hotel across the road are my focal point. This isn’t traveling. I can tell you what time the lights on the Meldrum Hotel sign are turned on. It’s exactly at 7.15 pm.

 I’ve experience Meldrum street in its 24 hour cycle. Mr. Good Morning comes out of his rat hole when the sun sets and greets everyone in his   deep bellicose voice. He hasn’t got a pot to piss in and never begs for one Ringgit.

 It’s time for a dirty grudge fix. Staying in a nice hotel and taking pictures of the ebb and flow of the street from the same position, day in and night out, is getting old. I’m just a fat and bloated tourist like the rest of them. We are roaming mob of cashed up and bored tourist looking for the best valued hotel and cheap cigarettes.

 I’m looking for another local and more quirky people. “Don’t worry,” said Raj. “We have your food and tee tareh covered in Malaysia. Where ever you travel, you will find us.”

The dirty ports are calling me. What contraband and illegal immigrants are being smuggled in and out of the country? I can bet where my cheap Indonesian cigarettes are coming from.


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