Oh my freaking God – it's Kylie!

In Hong Kong I have just met Kylie. And I hadn't even recognized her at first. When I was trying to persuade the representatives of that free shuttle bus that takes people to any major Kowloon hotel (exept the major one I had picked) she was behind me in line, ready to do what I was doing. So we shared a cab. And that's where she told me who she was. I couldn't believe it! Kylie!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

She looks different now. I wouldn't call her ugly, but she certainly doesn't look like back in those videos. But maybe it was just the fact that she wasn't wearing makeup or anything (well, she was wearing something, she wasn't, like, naked).

Apparently she's now joined Qantas as a promotion manager (quote: "I'm like the face of Qantas"). And she's with a British guy who conducts some sort of project in Africa. The hotel staff thought we were a couple when they saw us arriving in the same cab. It took us a while to straighten that one out. Even hours later the elevator girl asked where my partner was. I said that she was just some chick I had shared a cab with. Just some chick? Man, am I arrogant. She's KYLIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Blue Burp Group.

My temporary home in Bali happens to be located a good 30 minutes drive away from the hustle and bustle of Kuta, in the middle of the rice fields. This makes it mildly convenient for me, as when I go out I always have to find one of those rare taxis that don’t bullshit you. They are called “Blue Bird Group”, the only company that actually lets you complain about their drivers.

The one I got last night was actually going the right way, which is always a good start – Indonesians seem to be ashamed if they don’t know the way and thus usually just drive around hoping for some divine signs. What I found a little bit disturbing was the fact that the guy was constantly burping. No ten seconds passed without some noise from the driver's intestines. I wondered if he was synchronized with the engine. Or if he’d just eaten too much garlic.

At some point he abruptly stopped the car in the middle of a rice field. Great, I thought, he’s probably gonna rob me or rape me. But he told me to stay there while he got out of his seat. There he stood next to the rice, opened his fly and started pissing. Back in the car he gave very strong signs of relief. I mentioned the Malay word for toilet I had learnt and he chuckled. Plus I announced that what he did was probably good for the growth of the crop which to my own surprise caused massive laughter on his behalf.

And – the burping had stopped. I cannot imagine how but somehow his stomach must have been directly connected to his bladder. At that point I started burping myself and became suddenly aware, that the pressure on my own bladder was getting rather intense. Damn. Still about 15 minutes to go. And the holes in the road didn’t make soothe my pain.

But I didn’t need to worry too much about this as another problem started to occupy my mind: How am I going to pay him without getting any change back – change that he had touched with his pee fingers. To cut a long way home short: Thanks to his pissing the guy ended up with a huge tip.

How I didn't meet Patsie Cheong.

Every country seems to have some kind of domestic über-goddess. In the States she's called Martha Stewart. In Switzerland we've got Betti Bossi. And in Malaysia she's materialized as no one less than the infamous Patsie Cheong.

There is not one topic of relevance to cooks and housewives this Chinese mak cik hasn't dealt with. Her recipe books range from Singaporean festival delights, Thai and Nonya (the famous cuisine of the Peranakan from Malacca) to Western dishes, cakes and pastries as well as recipes for Pregnancy and Confinement. My personal favourite is called "Joy of Making Dim Sum." And good Lord, what a joy it is to make those little suckers.

So while hanging out in Kuala Lumpur I was desperate to find the woman. But my task was going to be difficult, as Madame Cheong changes the colour of her hair more often than her underwear. On every cover she wears the same funky smile, but a different shade of black, brown, purple, orange or maroon on her head.

Running around the streets of China town I came accross any smell of bbq pork, any quality of silk garments, any remedy curing any disease, even spotted CDs of broadway legend Fei Xiang, a guy I had met a few days earlier at a Singapore rooftop party. But no sign of my beloved Patsie Cheong. Maybe she's not real, I consider. Maybe she's just a projection of a dream like the tooth fairy. Or Ronald McDonald. She's certainly got the right hair for that.

I got converted.

Being tall brings some problems along with it. In any American shopping mall, random people come up to me and ask "Gosh, you're tall. Do you play basketball?". I wonder what they'd react like if I asked: "Jee, you're fat. Do you do sumo?".

Today I was trying to get out of a coach with my head awkwardly bent to the front at the border between Singapore and Malaysia when an annoying 5 year old Chinese kid spoke up to his father: "Dad, can you see the big jew in front of me"? He asked the same question three times and I made sure the kid didn't say "dude". He actually said "jew".

Now I have always had a feeling that my soul was stuck in a jewish body at some point a few years ago. I have even considered converting, since christianity has always bored the shit out of me and I have been looking to peer up with a more interesting (and more intellectual) sort of people. But since I don't believe in anything, not even myself, I let the matter drop.

Until today, when I was made a jew by an obnoxious little devil. Was it because of my beard? Maybe my wife's wig was the reason? Nope. There I was, all tall, blond, wifesless. It must have been my bent head. The kid must have thought I the midst of some sort of prayer.

I like the idea of being jewish all of a sudden. I can wear a hat, save 15 minutes in the bathroom every morning. And I don't have to shave anymore. I'll still eat pork though, but let the rabbi not catch me. So if you'll excuse me, I'll have to go out and get a drink at the local Bar Mitzwa. Oh, and I mustn't forget to have the end of my cock cut off. Better make a note of that.

The hidden tower of Bukit Nanas.

Meanwhile I have made my way up to Kuala Lumpur, spending five hours in a bus next to some Chinese lady who was either reading sports car magazines or snoring like hell. I will write more about the guesthouse I'm staying at later. Let me tell you about my trip to Bukit Nanas, the city forest of KL, or whatever is left of it. Right in the middle of the thing they built an enormous tower overlooking the whole city. That was where I was heading.

I thought it was a nice idea to have a stroll in the park. The sign indicated that there was a passage into the woods, so I followed it. The sky was heavy with all kinds of fumes, several layers of pollution would only let through faint ideas of sun light. After some ten to fifteen minutes I got slightly discouraged, figuring out that I was actually going around the park without ever making my way into it. Big rocks and some barb wire kept me from getting too adventurous. About that time the sun came out and my pores opened, making me sweat like a suckling pig over charcoal.

Another ten or so minutes later, getting rather unpatient, I spotted a few uniformed school children. Hang on - kids like parks. And so do teachers, because they can dump the kiddies and don't have to teach. I followed the little creepers and came to a couple of stone stairs leading up into the darkness of the old trees. Yes, I found the gateway... Some 50 odd steps uphill a grim builing ready to fall apart caught my attention. It bore the sign: "Home for disabled women". The thought of all those disabled women being locked up in this prison like edificio made me shiver. I was just about to picture the scenes taking place in there when a uniformed muslim woman started shouting at me from up the stairs. My Malay (or was it English) wasn't good enough to understand what she meant, but as far I know I was about to enter school premises and thus was to be ushered out. No want ang mo in school lah.

I thought of Frodo trying to make his way into Mordor. Somewhere there just had to be a way in. Please. I was getting discouraged. For about five minutes, then I gave up. Just as I wanted to wander off I came past a sign saying 'Jalan Bukit Nanas' (Bukit Nanas Street). That sign was a sign. I was sure. But instead of in a forest I ended up in a maze of cathedrals and convent schools. With kids hovering everywhere. (At that point I gave the thought of asking the Lord for his help a brief consideration, but since Him and I have been on very bad terms for the last 20 years I left it at that). Funny, I thought. Whenever some Muslim community tries to put up a mosque in Switzerland the whole neighbourhood rises in protest. And what have we got here, in one of the largest Muslim countries in the world? Churches and Christian religious schools.

The thoughts about this matter distracted me for a while, which was good since there was no sign of any bloody forest. I felt sympathy for Frodo again. My road led me to yet another school gate that was guarded by a funny old man. A dead end. Just as I cursed the whole world some other guard (they kept popping up, just like the orcs of Mordor) pointed at a tiny iron gate between some trees. It was it. The gate into the secret forest. I had found it after all.

The Lord of the Rings thing got even more intense when I saw a big sign warning me of scorpions and snakes as I walked up the path through the patch of rain forest. Will there be a giant creature up there somewhere waiting to suck my juices out (if ever, I prefer a cute male human creature doing so).

My forest walk lasted roughly four minutes. After that I was already at the parking lot in front of the tower. And how nice of the rain forest to demonstrate its full capabilities to me, as it had just started pissing it down. I hurried to the entrance of the tower and after taking one of the elevators, was rewarded with the shittiest view possible. Thanks to the heavy rain. But at least there was aircon. And funnily the crap view didn't keep the tshador'd Arab women from putting money into the telescopes.

That trip had made me hungry, so I opted for the food court at the mall downstairs from the Petronas towers a few blocks away. Unfortunately I couldn't find my way in, so I went hungry.

I've been dumped in Asia.

Let me get this straight: I'm gay. But that doesn't mean I should be treated like a piece of excrement, unless you are able to prove that you are a member of a right wing religious group. My latest boyfriend wasn't. And that's why I'm slightly mardy.

(Note: "mardy"=Leicestershire English for "pissed off", a remnant of a previous love story).

We were dating for half a year. And that was actually more of an effort than in most cases. Every time we wanted to have dinner I had to board a plane and fly twelve ours to Singapore. For the rest of the time we tended to make telephone companies rich. But still it was a very nice, very fulfilling relationship.

But we were both of the busy sort of people. Every time we met during all those months at least one of us was caught up in some highly sensitive creative work. Or just crap, but we were busy. So I was soo looking forward to my Summer holiday: two weeks in Bali. With just him and me. (And 10 staff at the villa).

But before we got to that island - and let me point out that I had already booked all my flights - I was to spend a couple of days here in Singapore. In the evening of day 3 he finally found the time to let me know that 'it wasn't working out for him anymore'. Tough luck, I guess. That's five weeks in Asia. And no more boyfriend.

At least I found a reason to finally open up my own blog and bore the world with stories of my exciting life. So, girls and boys, shiksas and goys, let me know your worst dump-ings ever. And if anyone out there will be in Bali around mid-August, let's have a drink. And bury our misery in an incense-filled hindu ceremony.