Notes from underground 27#
by Joseph Ridgwell
No Room at the Inn
It was in Sri Lanka that I met Dave. I was lying in a hammock on the porch of a little beach hut, reading a copy of Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, when a stranger appeared from the adjoining hut,
‘Hi neighbour,’ said the stranger jovially.
Immediately I clocked the accent, and it surprised me. I stopped swinging and looked up,
‘Shit, ain’t eard another London accent in months,’ I exaggerated.
The tall dark handsome stranger’s face broke out in a big warm smile, ‘Another geezer, East London yeah?’
‘Leyton, yourself?’
‘Hackney born and bred.’
I raised a questioning eyebrow, ‘Hackney, the area for trendies and toffs, you must be loaded.’
My new neighbour laughed, a deep throaty laugh, and then introduced himself, ‘I’m Dave, and actually you’re not far off, but take a wrong turning my friend and the ghetto is RIGHT THERE!’
I laughed at that and shook Dave’s hand, ‘Joe,’ I replied.
After intro’s Dave and me had a good chin wag. It turned out we were both old pro’s of the backpacking scene. Dave had recently covered most of Africa, while I’d just completed a four-year extended sojourn in the land of the kangaroo. The questions came thick and fast and immediately we got on like a house on fire.
After that we spent the next couple of weeks holed up in what was a remote, but somewhat charming beach resort situated on a picturesque stretch of the Indian Ocean. With a civil war raging and the Tamil Tigers blowing people up, most tourists continued to give the former Ceylon the cold shoulder. So aside from a few intrepid or desperate freaks we were the only foreigners in town.
The upside to all this terrorism shit was that Sri Lanka remained an incredibly cheap destination, and westerners could live like kings for a just a few pounds a day. And live like Kings we did. Dave was a colourful character, a larger than life type, or sheer force. Experience tells me you possibly only meet this kind of person once or twice in a lifetime, and later, much later, you realise how much of a one-off they were.
The Sri Lankan beach scene was good for a while. Me and Dave had the rule of the roost, and held court in the bars each and every night. The fast and loose, some might say desperate local girls were all over us like a rash. Actually they were all over Dave like a rash, as he was an exotic novelty with money to burn.
Women are the same the world over, flash the cash, and some of their number will always come running, but stand on a street corner with a hand outstretched in the classic beggar mode, and you’ll likely to stay celibate a long, long time.
Each night we’d head down to the beach, light a fire, and then Dave would pull out his battered guitar, and serenade whoever was prepared to listen. He couldn’t play very well, and couldn’t sing that well, but his larger than life personality overcame any lack of talent.
The local girls loved it. South-East Asians are notoriously bad at interpreting western style popular music, and despite his short-comings Dave simply blew them away. His speciality was Bob Marley renditions. I’d sit beside him and slap away at a pair of battered souvenir bongos, just like Mickey Finn in T-Rex. No clue what the fuck I was doing, but giving it my all.
But you know what? Nothing good lasts forever, and eventually the time came for me and Dave to say sayonara to Buddha’s Foot Bay, and hit the road once more. I mean, how long can you spend on a beach? How long can you pretend to be a millionaire playboy? And how long can you keep casually shagging local birds without some sort of payback?
So the long, hot sultry evening came when me and Dave got down to discussing the nitty gritty. We were sitting in a tiny beach bar, sucking on a couple of Lion beers, during one of those increasingly rare moments when the groupies weren’t around. I wasted no time in firing the ultimatum,
‘We’ve got to get the fuck out of here, its becoming claustrophobic!’
Dave let out a long sigh, ‘You’re right, I’m turning down three or four marriage proposals a day, and every man has his limit.’
I rubbed my hippy beard thoughtfully, ‘I say fly to Kuala Lumpur and hit some islands on the Malaysian peninsular.’
Dave lifted his wooden guitar, held it across his muscular torso, and began strumming, ‘No western man Sri Lankan woman cry, oh yeah. No walking ATM man, woman cry-hy!’
I grabbed my bongos and gave them a few half-hearted slaps, whilst Dave continued in the same clichéd vein, ‘Said I remember when we used to sit, on this beach in tranquil peacefulness. Good friends we were until those lovely girls came along, ooh, ohh, yeah…’ Then he abruptly stopped strumming,
‘Fuck it, we leave tomorrow!’
Two days later Dave and I arrived in Malaysia’s modern capital on the last flight out of Colombo. The airport was on the outskirts of the city and by the time we caught a taxi it was nearly midnight. Having been on the go since the crack of dawn we were both tired and travel weary.
The cheapest Kuala Lumpur hostelries and guesthouses were all located in the Chinese district, and as it was only a flying visit….,
‘Take us to Chinatown please,’ I told the driver, a friendly middle-aged Indian woman.
The driver nodded, pulled out onto the highway, and darted towards the city. I studied some Hindu deities hanging from the rear-view mirror, Shiva perhaps. And then there were the lights, hundreds if not thousands of them, emanating from the tallest buildings in the world, the Petronas towers.
After a 40 minute drive, signs written in Chinese told us we were in the desired locale, and the driver rolled up to some shabby looking accommodation. Immediately touts appeared from out of nowhere, thrusting photos of equally shabby-looking budget accommodation against the windows of the taxi, and jabbering away in Chinese or Malay or whatever. When I stepped out of the car four or five were on me.
‘Easy,’ I murmured, as I tried to get my bearings.
Strangely, as soon as Dave stepped out of the car the touts backed off and melted into the shadows.
Then we were alone in the night,
‘Weird,’ Said I.
Dave seemed not to take any notice, ‘Come on let’s try that place.’
We strolled up to the nearest guesthouse and rapped on the door. Moments later a fat grey-haired woman appeared,
‘Wha you wan?’ She asked rudely.
‘Got a double room for the night?’ I replied.
The old woman gave us the once over, ‘We full,’ she squawked, before slamming the door in our tired faces.
Dave pointed to a row of guesthouses on the other side of the road, ‘Let’s try over there.’
A rap on the door and a young Chinese man appeared,
‘Got a double room for the night?’ I repeated, parrot style.
The young man appeared slightly embarrassed, ‘No vacancy,’ he said softly, and once more a door was closed in our faces.
‘Fuck this shit,’ I said.
Dave put on a brave face, ‘Come, on, let’s keep trying.’
We got the same response at the next four establishments,
‘What the fuck we ganna do?’ I said in exasperation.
Dave threw his backpack to the floor, ‘Shit, I don’t know.’
It was the first time since I’d been hanging out with him that Dave didn’t know what to do, and I felt a small panic well up inside of me.
‘Well, shit, we can’t sleep on the streets!’
Dave picked up his battered guitar and strummed somewhat lackadaisically,
‘No room, we cry-hi, ooohh,’ he mumbled dejectedly.
As we sat on our backpacks scratching our heads and wondering what to do, the taxi we’d caught from the airport suddenly re-appeared. The friendly woman poked her head out of the window,
‘You no luck, finding room?’
We shook our heads disconsolately.
‘Jump in, you stay my place.’
Dave and I couldn’t believe our luck, but put it this way, we didn’t need a second invitation.
Once in the car the driver looked over her shoulder, and gave it to us straight,
‘You no room, I think because your friend black yes!’
‘Pardon,’ I stuttered.
The woman smiled and pointed at Dave, ‘Chinese no like.’
Dave blinked his heavy-lidded eyes, ‘Are you serious?’
The woman flashed us another smile, ‘Ya, they no like Hindu also, so fuck them.’
Dave eyeballed me and I eyeballed him and then we both burst out laughing,
‘Mother,’ I said.
‘Shit,’ said Dave.
We spent the night at the Hindu woman’s overcrowded apartment in downtown Kula Lumpur. On the way I managed to purchase a couple of six packs of beer and we had a high time drinking and enjoying some excellent Indian home cooking.
The next morning we caught a bus to some distant islands on the East coast of the Malaysian peninsular. On the way I turned to Dave and posed the question,
‘You okay about that last night shit?’
Dave smiled wryly, ‘Water off a duck’s back, Ridgwell.’
The bus drove on, on.
May 5th, 2008 at 6:07 am
you write well, Mr. Ridgwell, always a pleasure to read
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