Malaysia in High-Def

Despite the astronomically high cost of alcohol and the very real threat of death over being caught with so much as weed on your breath, both booze and drugs are actually quite easy to come by in Borneo, depending on your resourcefulness. By the time fate brought me to the shores of Malaysia, it had been well over a year since I'd been worth more than 50 dollars at any one time, so I was well prepared for the task at hand. My excuse for being there in the first place was as part of a two man vanguard, sent to source, and eventually purchase equipment to run a successful commercial diving operation outside of Kota Kinabalu. Did we possess the necessary experience and know-how to perform such a task? No. Did we have the faintest idea as to how we were supposed to accomplish such a mission? Absolutely not. But when a clueless Chinese millionaire hands you and your best friend 2 thousand dollars plus a ticket to Malaysia, you don't look a gift horse in the mouth and tell him you're not a jockey. You give your balls a tug, clamber up, and convince yourself that if a midget can do it, it can't be all that hard. It didn't take long for us to start the squander. KK is terribly overpriced if you're a functional alcoholic with no hobbies. It really is quite a beautiful place though. Mount Kinabalu is at your doorstep, and the diving there would make Jacques Cousteau piss in his dry suit. Our first meal was a Burger King Whopper, complete with some delicious monstrosity called "beefacon". Malaysia is what I like to call "Muslim with a side of Muslim". They are so devoted to their faith, that we had to send photocopies of our passport pages ahead of time to prove that we hadn't been to Israel. They are so devoted to their faith, that sodomy and female mud wrestling are punishable by death. And they are SO devoted to their faith, that you can't even purchase a dead pig on top of a dead cow, but instead are subjected to a bullshit beef substitute. What really hit us hard was the cost of alcohol. A single can of beer would run us 3 bucks a piece, and we were coming from Vietnam, a country made infamous for cheap piss (less than 50 cents a litre). It took us about ten days to go flat broke, a new land speed record. We managed to find a liquor store that would sell us a bottle of whiskey for a dollar, but all you were purchasing was a guarantee of shitting your pants and/or getting your lights punched out by your best mate. We had been subsisting on a daily diet of a single piece of bread, a cup of MSG flavoured noodles, and "Franken-smokes", which were created by a combination of collecting leftover cigarettes found in the gutter, and digging through ashtrays at the local mall before rolling your findings into one single carcinogenic experience. In short, there was broke, and then there was us, two private school educated Caucasian twenty somethings, cruising the clubs after last call, drinking all the leave behinds in a country that has the GDP of Jeff Bezos' right testicle. And then we struck gold.

This particular night started off with my partner in crime extremely upset with me because I had dined at one of our favourite restaurants and dashed on the bill. He wasn't angry at me over some deep sense of honour and dignity mind you, he was just pissed that I hadn't invited him along for the free feed. For anybody who thinks hard drugs are what will drive a man to do anything, I suggest they try starvation. Poor as we were, there was always a booze budget somehow, and we found ourselves casing a popular backpacker joint for an angle. Enter Mr. PhD. He was an American chemist with a doctorate in something or other, but that's not really pertinent, and also unlikely to be true. What mattered was that within five minutes of meeting this fine gentleman, he produced a Lonely Planet booklet, opened it to a dog eared page, and proceeded to inform us that he had meticulously placed drops of incredibly powerful LSD on every letter A within specific paragraphs, so that he could get his "medicine" through customs. He then handed the book to my trusty companion and told us to help ourselves, as he was "having a quiet one that night." A sensible couple of lads would have seen this as somewhat of a red flag, but before we could have a huddle to discuss the pros and cons of eating a book from a stranger apparently full of potent hallucinogenics in a country where you're probably more likely to die BECAUSE you went to a hospital, my mate had an entire page torn off and down his gullet. I think he was just happy for a free meal. Not wanting to be "that guy", I quickly followed suit, and unbeknownst to us, we were off the beaten trail once again. I regained my sense of self awareness at a pub that was hosting a quiz night. Apparently we'd won, and the grand prize was a bucket of beers. Mr. PhD had disappeared, only to be replaced with a British Divemaster that we made contact with during our first week in KK, back when we thought we had half a chance at completing our mission. She knew her way around town, and when our liquor stores had run dry, she had just the place. One ten minute stumble plus a dark alley later, and we had arrived at our destination. In the words of Stefan from SNL: This place had EVERYTHING. Techno, Lasers, smoke machines, and an alarming amount of well dressed Malaysian dudes wanting to arm wrestle the wasted white guys and buy us drinks. It was my compadre who was blessed with the first moment of clarity. We had been unwittingly led to an underground gay bar. He was thoroughly unimpressed as the drugs started to turn on him, so he made his peace with me, and wandered off into another dimension. As far as I was concerned, the beer was free flowing, the walls resembled a Salvador Dali painting (in a good way) and I was 10 and 0 on the arm wrestling front, shattering my previous record of zero wins, so I was exactly where I needed to be. Even Malaysian gay bars have a last call, and I managed to make the most of it, despite not possessing a single item of value, be it a coin or otherwise. I was cordially invited to our tour guide's apartment, which just so happened to be a few floors up from the bar we had just been pleasantly removed from, and I was in no position to deny a decent proposal, or any proposal for that matter. when we arrived, I made my way to the balcony for some fresh air. I looked ten stories down at a pool that was far too inviting. I questioned my hostess as to the probability that I could survive a swan dive into said pool, and it was decided that I no longer had outside privileges. I was placed on a sofa with a beer, the balcony door was locked, and my gracious guardian disappeared for what seemed like an eternity. I started melting into the couch, which wasn't a fun prospect. so I tried to snap out of it. I looked to my left and saw two cold, black eyes staring back at me, not three feet from my face. Upon closer inspection, I found none other than an inflatable killer whale occupying the seat next to me. I was perplexed, I was intrigued I was scared, I was happy. I was every feeling the universe had to offer and none of them all at once. I snatched my new friend and we shared an embrace. In that moment I had found the kind of safety and understanding that I had been searching for my entire life. Willy didn't need to hear me say it, he just knew, and he just wanted me to know that he was there for me, forever and always. What happened next I can't accurately describe in confidence, but before I knew it, I was kicked out of an apartment above a gay bar by a scantily clad divemaster aiming a speargun at my chest. After this exchange, the LSD decided it was time to turn on me. I found myself drunk and on drugs, alone in a building I couldn't recognize, and lacking basic motor functions. I had no phone, no money, and I was without a fully functioning brain. The elevator was far to complex of a concept for me at that moment, so I stumbled down a bunch of stairs, and then up just as many, trying to find my escape. Eventually the sun started to come up, and that somehow impressed some sense upon me. I was able to make it out alive, into the cool Malaysian morning. I spotted a Mcdonald's on the ground floor of the labyrinth. Considering that my last meal was not only well over 12 hours ago, but consisted of ink and paper, I decided to treat myself. "I'll have three of your finest bacon and egg Mcmuffins good sir," I spoke in what I was sure was IMPECCABLE Malay, "post haste!". The food arrived before it dawned on me that this particular dimension I found myself in used money in exchange for goods, and I found myself without any. I frantically searched my pockets, and came up with nothing but an old rubber band. Not to be caught with my metaphorical pants down, I drew upon my experience as a 12 year old child, fashioned a rubber band gun, and proceeded to hold up the Mcdonalds. The workers there were neither scared nor pleased. I managed to make off with the loot though. I ran as far as my flip flops would allow, until the plugs blew out and I was forced to go barefoot. The sun suddenly peaked over Mount Kinabalu, and I found myself frozen stiff in the presence of pure beauty. When I could finally muster the strength to put feet to pavement again, I found a bench, sat down and gazed at the fishermen going about their morning. I reached into my loot bag, pulled out a glorious disc of bacon n' egg nourishment, and took a bite. My taste buds instantly turned to ash. Fucking beefacon.