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Mahatir is telling Najib to swear on the Koran that he wasn’t involved in any scandal. “Only then will we know if he’s lying,” says the former  Malaysian Prime Minister on prime time  Singapore TV.  When  the island state  pokes fun at their neighbours, they do it with abandon.

I’m the privileged class playing Peeping Tom. “That’s all journalists are,” said the dwarf in The Year of Living Dangerously, “Peeping Toms.”

Good teh tarik and  grub helps keep the human interest up, too.

Sounds of chopping, orders for drinks, Malaysian music, waitresses singing along. It’s the food hall. A Vietnamese lady sits down at my table. The Chinese Malay translates that it’s only 100 Ringgit for a massage.

My man cooks me up a nice noodle dish with fresh seafood and lots of fresh vegetables. My piles aren’t thanking me for that. They prefer to run a riot on junk food.

She’ a beautiful thing, in her 30s. Her friend sits down. She’ a bit more plump but has those beautiful Vietnamese features and like her friend alabaster skin. I ask my translator does the massage include a fuck. He says I should go and try it. They are  usually cruising the food hall for customers, and I had a really good think  about it.

The food hall is pumping in the day time. The Lombok waitress is the only one not sick of me calling her Ibu, or auntie. I suspect the others are getting pissed off. I chat to one of the owners of a Chinese stall. “That fucker Joko, the Indonesian president, is a real animal,” i sau. “Australia is the only country that must pay for a visa. Now that might  upset your Indonesian staff.”  

“No it won’t,” he said, ” they are all illegals and don’t have any political views while under my employment.” He must a friend of Dave who I met yesterday.

Now Malaysia and Australia are really good friends, I added. ” Malaysia gives me a  free three months visa on arrival  and we welcome Malaysians to work legally and illegally in Australia. How’s that for  reciprocation.” He just smiles at me, and he’s probably getting confirmation that I’m a real idiot.

He asks me if I’m working  here and how long have I been traveling. “Oh just a few long months,” I said. “I work  hard and play hard.” They just don’t understand the concept of someone traveling for months  on end and  wearing a pair of Malaysian track suit pants. I’m not getting the attention  that I got in Bintan, though. I guess these tracky pants aren’t that novel in Malaysia.

I pass Dave at the next food hall and he even says  hello. He was the one who told me how  things worked with hiring illegal immigrants. He also said I’ll fit in well here. “No one gives a fuck who you are,” he says, while giving my tracks suit pants a casual glance. “We are all foreigners in this country.”

This must be some kind of Colonial hangover thing going on here.  I’m really not complaining.

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