Mt. Batak is  opening up.

He’s not as  innocent as he lets on.

He’s obsessed with getting me a whore.

If it’s Borneo’s Magical Mystery Tour you want, I’ll give his number.

Really, all I wanted to do was hit the river, take a photo of the bridge, and perhaps drink a coffee.

Instead, he stopped at a hotel called the Orient.

Huh, is there a coffee shop here. It didn’t look like it.

I was genuinely dazed and confused. I’m not  use to this much commitment for finding a whore.

‘Only open until 10 pm,’ says my driver, a diminutive man who chain smokes anything and loves techno  music.

‘Ok,’ I said, gelling with the idea.

We climb the staircase, two floors later, I  make  the connection. He’s showing me the local whores.

You never can be too careful.

The hotel is haunted. The first two floors are empty, discarded, beyong it’s overdue date.

I was expecting the same for the whores on the third floor. Was I in a for a suprise.

‘Very dirty place,’ says the Christian Batak, who seemed to have lost what little morality he was born with many years ago. He slipped into a converstaion if I smoked dope. He mentioned Shabu the day before. He’ll swing both ways, depending on my wants and desires.

There’s a  large poster, on a stand, in my hotel foyer, that says ‘No Narcotics.’ It’s got me thinking, there could be a problem here. I suppose the execution of drug users on the spot isn’t much of a deterrant.

‘You like this girl,’ says my cultural guide. The doors of the hotel rooms are open, and the working girls are standing in the doorway.

One girl , who obviously did well at English in school, yells out ‘Hello Mister, how are you?”

I’d be better in your embrace. She was a hot and fiesty little number with light skin, a Kelamantan  trademark I’m told.  Five minutes later, after doing the tour of the third and forth floor, her door was shut. She was entertaining.

Miss Java had  the biggest tits possible on a frame of a dwarf.

“You like big susu,’ said Mr. Batak, and who doesn’t.

Just for admiring her amazing fun bags from the safe confides of the corridor, she asked for money. Gold Digger, she’d be expensive. And worth every fucking cent.

Other subdued whores were offering me double the price of the locals. It was still dirt cheap.

‘Here very dirty,’ said my driver.

‘You haven’t seen the chicken farms in Bali, they are slums.’

He couldn’t believe it.

Nor could I until I visited one.

The parking guy said he could arrange a special delivery to my hotel.

Then for the next half an hour, Mr Batak is driving on the outskirts  of town looking for a hotel his friend recommended.

It’s getting very tedious. I don’t like the look of those banana trees, must be getting close to the jungle.

He eventually  finds the hotel after stopping to ask anyone who cared to help and sweeping the back roads for anything that looked remotely like a shag hotel. It’s a Spa & Massage place, only one whore working tonight, I’m informed.

‘I must remember where it is next time,’ says my driver who only found out about this place from his friend half  an hour ago.

The Orient was winning by a long shot so far, but it seems my driver thinks I prefer to pay higher prices. Not sure where he got that idea from.

On the way back to town, he cruises the back streets for a meet and greet the whores, mostly sitting on motorbikese with their dodgy pimps nearby.

I put down my window and a lady from Madura gets off her bike  and begins her sales pitch. She’s a lone wolf and has no hanger on pimp. I like that.

‘Madura famous for tight pussy.’

I was almost tempted. She wasn’t making this up, they really are!

Edward runs a little warung in the Red Light precinct. a low key street with coffee shops and a few karaoke bars around the corner.

I hand him my ipad and he  plugs it into his sound system.

It’s Jason Durelo hour.

Then he hands me back  the ipad, with the new glass replacement, and says it’s time for evening music.

Techo, and very loud.

I’m beat.  It was an eye opener. Things are pretty open here in Borneo.

Being a predominantly Chinese city, I wasn’t surprised.

I didn’t get a whore. My driver’s esteem of me undoubtebly dropped.

This wasn’t an expose on the sex industry. This was an expose of a Christian Batak whose name means The  Blessed One.






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