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Selling Hashish in VIETNAM. Chapter 11 - Rantau Panjang

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I spent about a month in Kota Bharu with my sister. The Thigh Land border is just 42 km North of Kota Bharu. Lot of People from neighboring Malaysian villages and towns including Kota Bharu, used to go shopping in Kolok town in Thigh Land, across the border, where everything cost half of what it cost on the Malaysian side, majorly things like consumer goods, readymade garments, cosmetics, liquor, and….women! The boundary between the two countries is the river Kolok. River, in Thigh language English spelling is Su-Ngai, and Malaysian language English spelling is Sungei. 

North of the Kolok river is the town of Kolok, in Narathiwat province of the Hindu kingdom of Thigh Land, and South of the river is the town of Rantau Panjang in the Kelantan state of Islamic Malaysia. Islamic unrest in this region has been endemic and frequent violence, leading to dozens of deaths, is common. In such an area, law & order is more subject to the desires of local goons than state cops or federal police. Street brawls and gunfights were common. They still are. 

Nevertheless, this didn’t bother me and I decided to check out the charms and delights of Kolok, where prices were too attractive. I had been told that it was an open border (Like India has with Burma, at Moreh in East Manipur). There are no formalities – no paperwork, no permits and no passport - required to cross between Rantau Panjang in Malaysia and Kolok in Thigh Land. Just walk across the bridge on the river Kolok. 

I took a bus from Kota Bharu and reached Rantau Panjang in an hour. It was @ 10:00 a.m. I went to a Chinese coffee shop closest to the border bridge and ordered a beer. I surveyed the scene. About 50 feet away was the bridge on the river and people were nonchalantly walking across it in both directions with carry bags. At the near end of the bridge (on the Malaysian side) there were three tables, and chairs on which uniformed Malaysian policemen wearing guns were sitting. There were movable barriers arranged in such a way that the people were herded and had to walk single file between the officers tables and the barriers. The officers were just looking at the people walking past, not stopping anyone nor having any other interaction with them. There were men, women and children of all ages, shapes and sizes – Malays, Chinese, Thais – all Mongoloid races. 

It was @ 11:00 a.m. An old Chinese man, age about 50 had joined my table and was also drinking beer. I was about to order my third beer when it suddenly struck me: “Why am I drinking beer here when I can get beer at half the price just a furlong (200 meters) away?” Stoopid! 

I decided to go across to Kolok. I finished my beer, paid the money and got up. I joined the line of people walking across the bridge. I walked past the Malaysian officers on this side of the bridge. Nobody stopped me or questioned me. I walked on. As I reached the other side of the bridge, I had to walk past similar tables manned by Thigh Land officers wearing guns. They stopped me. 

One officer said something to me, which I did not understand. Another officer said something else to me which also I did not understand. They both looked at each other and both said “English?” I nodded. They motioned me to follow and walked to the Malaysian side, where the Malaysian officers were sitting. 

Looking at the Malaysian officers, the Thigh Land officers pointed at me and said “English” 

“Where are you from?” the Malaysian officer asked me in English. 

“India”, I said. I showed him my passport. 

“You cannot go into Thigh Land from here. There is no immigration department officer or counter here. Visa on arrival facility is available only to people who come by air and land in Bangkok.” 

I said, “These Thigh Land officers were not stopping anybody else. Why did they decide to accost me?” 

“You look different from this crowd, very different. You have thick moustaches which are merging with your thick sideburns. How many people here can you see which have so much hair on their face? Not even one. Almost everybody here is Malay, Chinese or Thigh – all three are Mongoloid races who hardly have any hair on the face. Besides, your style of merging moustache with sideburns stands out and attracts immediate attention to your face – as a non-local”, the Malaysian officer said. 

“Then why didn’t you stop me when I walked past your table?” I asked. 

The Malaysian officer replied: “The Malaysian focus is different from the Thigh Land focus. We are the richest country in the region. Our currency is the most powerful in the region. [In 1973, one Malaysian Dollar (Ringgit) was equal to two Singapore Dollars]. Everybody wants to come and live and work in Malaysia. So we are trained to look at who is coming in – to steal our jobs - rather than bother about some idiot who is leaving. Besides, in Ipoh where I come from, there are many Indian Baiyees (Sikhs) who keep long hair and beards, and Indian Sindhis who don’t keep long hair – all Malaysians, but have much facial hair. To me, you could very well be Malaysian, and Malaysians are allowed to walk into Kolok. So I did not stop you. But the situation in Kolok, and especially Narathiwat province is different. The Thigh Land police is trained for a different focus. There is much islamik insurgency in Narathiwat province. Facial hair on male islmk faces is an essential condition of islm. You have much hair on your face. There are no Baiyees or Sindhis in this part of Thailand, so these local Thigh Land cops know nothing about people who look like you and have so much hair on their face, So they must have thought you were islmk, and hence a threat to their Hindu cunt ree, so they stopped you.” 

“Can I go into Thigh Land, Kolok now?” I asked. 

The Malaysian officer looked at the Thigh cops. They shook their heads. 

“Sorry”, said the Malaysian officer. “The Thighs are refusing your entry.” 

This was very frustrating. I walked back to the coffee shop where I was sitting. The old Chinese guy was still at the same table, on his second beer. 

“What happen?” he asked in broken English. Most Malaysians and Singaporeans never pronounce the ‘ed’ hence their sense of tense is a pretense. 

I explained what had happened. He said that if I still wanted to go, he could tell me how. I said I sure wanted to go. The cheap goodies across the border were too tempting. 

He pointed to the Rantau Panjang Railway Station less than 100 meters away. “Get into the train which is at the station now. There is no checking on the train. Kolok station is across the river. When the train stops at Kolok, just walk out of the platform and go where you want. You can come back the same way.” 

The idea appealed to me. I went to the station and got on the train. Within minutes the train moved north. There was hardly any crowd in the train. It was almost empty. It was moving, but was slow enough for anyone to get on or get off. It was slow because if had to stop at Kolok station less than half a kilometer away. I stood at the door of my compartment looking outside. 

As the train cleared the platform, about 100 meters away from the end of the platform, there was a huge metallic gate across the tracks, about ten feet tall. I imagine the gate would mark the border between the two countries. 

In a few minutes the train trudged into Kolok station. I got off and walked out of the station. Nobody stopped me. 

I first went into the nearest coffee shop and ordered a bottle of ‘Singha’ beer. It was indeed half the price for the same size of bottle on the other side. The beer taste was different from the ‘Tiger’ and ‘Anchor’ beer that I had been drinking in Malaysia and Singapore, but was pretty good. Definitely worth the munny. I was glad I came, at least for the cheap beer if nothing else. 

I had a few large beers in about half an hour or more and decided to explore the promised charms of Kolok. I paid for the beers and walked the streets. My moustache-sideburns face was fairly conspicuous. 

A local kid, about eight or nine years old, started following me. He came to my side and said in English: “Woman? Big? He pulled up his arms with his palms facing his chest. 

I looked at him. An eight year old pimp! He could as well be pimping for his mother, with or without the knowledge of his father, if…he had a father! Gawd! Anyway, his relationship with the ‘woman’ was hardly my concern. I was more interested in the cost of the ‘relationship’ I would like to have with this ‘woman’. I was also most interested in the ‘shape’ of the woman. 

36-24-36 is the ideal shape of a woman. Why? The reason is pretty obvious. Since the prime objective of life is the continued replication of our genetic code, Dilip Bam’s personal genome would have greater chance of continued replication if his offspring is large in size. The offspring will be large in size if the space available for growing is large which is the womb, which has to be large, which means the hips of a woman should be large to accommodate a large womb: 

Hence 36 for the hips. 

24 for the waist means small stomach, which means less effort for her impregnator to keep her small stomach full. 

36 for the breast, means big boobs, which means more milk for my offspring when it is born. 

This is the genetic program logic behind our quest for the 36-24-36 woman. 

But how to explain 36-24-36 to an eight year old kid who doesn’t know my language nor do I know his? 

But he knows at least two English words: ‘Woman’ and ‘big’. 

Looking at him I put my palms to my chest and said “big?” 

He nodded. 

Then I patted my stomach and said, “No big?” pressing my stomach and back with my hands. 

He nodded. 

Then I pressed my hands to my waist with my elbows akimbo and said again, “No big?” 

He again nodded. 

Then I patted my hips and looked at him. 

“Besaar” he said. Besar in Malay language means: big, large, huge, whatever. I had learnt a few words of Malay in the few weeks that I was with my sister in Kota Bharu. 

“Berapa?” I asked, which means ‘how much’? 

The kid’s face lit up. I was asking a relevant question in HiS language! 

“Sa ratus baht”, he replied, which means 100 baht. This was pretty cheap 

I said ’Ya’ and gestured for him to lead. I followed. 

A few minutes walk brought us to a fairly decent building. He entered. I followed. A short corridor led us to a fairly large room where about 25 to 30 women were seated on various chairs and sofas. They appeared to range from age 15 to 45 and weight from 40 kg to 80 kg. Each was carrying a cardboard with a number written on it. 

I selected number 24 and pointed at her. She would be about five-foot-two and about 50 kg to my 66 kg. She came to me, held my hand and led me to a counter. The kid followed us. We came to a counter from where another long corridor opened with rooms on both sides opening into the corridor. I had read that the Ibans and Bataks of Sarawak lived in Longhouses. But this was the ultimate, purpose-built, fucking Longhouse! 

I looked at the kid. He said Sa Ratus. I took out a 100 baht note and put it on the counter. The girl at the counter took a notepad which looked like a bill book. Everything was printed in Thigh language which I do not know or understand. She wrote the figure 100/- on it and gave it to me. This is the only instance I know where a whore gave a receipt. 

She led me into the corridor and thence into one of the rooms. The room was fairly large, about 15 feet by 15 feet. It was divided into two parts by a six inch high cement barrier running from wall to wall: a wet area and a dry area. 

The wet half had a tap, flexible shower and drainage, and in the centre of the wet area was an inflated rubber tub, with branded (probably fake) soaps, shampoos, perfumes, oils & etc. kept around it. 

The dry half had a bed about four feet by seven feet, about 15 inches high, with a mattress and clean white sheet spread on it. 

I sat on the bed. I was not sure how to begin. This was the first time in my life I was paying for a fuck. 

Not that I had not fucked before. Fucking Janet and Janice on board the AXARA was a matter of course. It happened because there was nothing better to do, as if there ever is. There was no exchange. No quid-pro-quo. It just happened. 

Then there was the fucking night long orgy on paradise atoll. Janet and Janice got to fuck real genuine pirates. No give and take. No exchange. No quid-pro-quo. Just an orgy among consenting adults. 

After that there was the party of RSYC members on sister’s island the day before Jim left, where some fucking happened. 

Right now, the woman, who I think was about 32-33, was fairly well built. She sat next to me and started to remove my clothes. Better get down to business, I thought. I started undressing her. When we were both naked, she made me lie face down and started massaging me: the neck, the shoulder blades, arms, biceps, triceps, forearm; then down my spine taking in the rib-cage, my buttocks, thighs, calf, ankle and foot including my toes! Quite a thorough job! 

Then she turned me over, like turning a page in a book and did the same to my front side, carefully avoiding touching my genitals. 

After twenty minutes or half an hour of this, she got up, held my hand and led me to the tub. She sprayed some water from the shower on herself and then on me. Then she applied shampoo on her whole body and did the same on me. Then both of us lay down in the tub and she started slithering all around me, like two snakes slithering against each other during their mating process. Many times my prick rubbed against her cunt and boobs, but not once did she touch my prick or balls with her hands or mouth. 

This was a fantastic experience. This woman was a trained professional. My prick had become ERECTUS and wanted to ENTER THE DRAGON. As I tried to align the woman for frontal entry, she blocked her cunt with her hands and sat up. For the first time in the almost one hour we were at it she spoke: “You want inside? Hundred Baht”, she said pointing at my prick and her cunt. We were sitting prick-to-cunt, with her thighs over mine, prime entry angle. 

Language is never a fuckin’ problem when it comes to actually fucking. Every anatomy of the female body has a price tag and display of this price tag is built into the female genetic program. This female must have cervixed many English speakers: mostly South China Sea Oil-Rigger types on their “two-weeks-off” phase, or American GIs on short fucking leave from the Vietnam War. Most likely, but I did not see any Anglo-Saxons or Black Americans in Kolok. Who else would speak English in Kolok in 1973? 

I said, “Ya, hundred Baht, OK”, and vigorously nodded my head. I had expected she would also nod her head, but she didn’t. She immediately got up, went to where my pants were hanging, took out my wallet from the pocket and handed it to me. “100 Baht”, she said. 

I lost my erection. 

Still, I fished out 100 Baht from my wallet and gave it to her and kept the wallet aside. 

She was still standing fully naked over me. Her legs spread over my face and my eyes directly looking at her cunt from below, like looking at the earth from the South Pole to the equator. 

Kwik Lee like Bruce Lee, she took the munny and put it in her handbag, and like a programmed robot, came back and sat exactly like before: prick-to-cunt, with her thighs over mine, prime entry angle. 

But, like I said, I had lost my erection. 

But she took things in hand, literally. So far, since we had entered this room and began our game, she had done everything except touch my genitals with her hands or her mouth. 

Now she did. She took my BOSS in her hands and friction began. El-Prick0 came awake. Hand, mouth, between boobs, and in her armpits! The armpits thing was again a never-before thing. 

Brilliant! El-Prick0 demanded entry. He entered. The 100 Baht entry fee had been paid. 

After I had CUM, I had to be GONE. Two hundred Baht buys you only so much. We had a shower together and much more entwining. 

The game had to come to an end sometime. Both of us dressed up and left the room. We walked back the same way we had come – via the counter, the exhibition room (women were still sitting with numbers as they were when I had first come in) and the short corridor leading outside. 

Two hundred Baht for more than an hour of snakelike entwining, plus entry and CUM-ing was quite a good deal. There were such places in Bangkok as well. I had made a survey during my time at the Express Hotel. I remember “CHAO-PHYA” massage parlor. It was huge, with high boundary walls like a fortress. The fee was 300 Baht, massage only. Enter the Dragon would be another 300, I suppose. In the event, in Kolok, it cost me one third of that. Very good deal I thought. After all, females in Bangkok did not have gold plated cunts and diamond studded nipples. 

As I exited the building and walked towards the gate, I turned and looked back. There was nobody at the door. The woman had gone back to her “showcase”, waiting to be picked up by another customer, such as a shopper in a supermarket. 

Sexually satisfied, I walked out of the gate and strolled around. The time would be early evening. 

I entered a shop selling readymade garments. Underwear, track-suits, vests, T-shirts and such were lying in basketful displays. 

I fancied a flaming red and jet black, round neck, T-shirt. I liked the color. I picked it up and felt the texture. I liked the color combo. I picked it up and brought the sleeve stitch to my shoulders to check for size. It fitted perfectly. Holding the T-shirt I extended my arms to see how the colors looked at three feet. They looked good. 

I lowered my arms holding the T-shirt. As I lowered it, exactly opposite me, across the counter was standing the same Thigh officer who had denied me entry into Kolok. He pointed at me and said something like, “You? How did you get here?” in whatever language he spoke. 

I panicked. Holding the T-shirt I ran out of the shop. Where could I run? Instinct told me to run back the same way I had come. I ran towards the station not far away. I looked back. The officer, gun in hand, was running behind me. 

I ran into the station, crossed the platform, jumped on the railway tracks and started running along the tracks south towards Rantau Panjang station in Malaysia. 

I heard a shot but dunno where it went. I was still running along the tracks. The officer was running, maybe 100 or more meters behind me. 

I came to the gate across the railway tracks which I had seen from the train on the way into Kolok. It was closed and locked. The only way to get across was to climb over it. I climbed over it in a jiffy and thanked monkeys for being my ancestors. As I was at the top of the gate going to jump down, I heard another shot and a bullet whizzed past my left ear. 

I dropped to the ground and ran to the same coffee shop from where I had started. 

The old Chinaman was still sitting at the same place with many empty bottles on the table. 

I sat across him, panting. 

“Sudah?” he says, flicking his neck in a gesture meaning something like, “done?” 

I ignored him and turned to look back to see if the Thigh officer had come across the border. Apparently he hadn’t. The pedestrian traffic across the bridge was still the same, but the officers manning the checkpoints on both sides of the bridge were different. Their shift must have changed. Those who were on duty when I wanted to go across were off duty now and another set of officers had taken over. There was no commotion on the bridge due to my shenanigans and everything appeared normal. 

I decided not to press my luck. I got up and made my way to the bus stand. There was a bus already leaving for Kota Bharu. 

I jumped into it and made my way to Kota Bharu. I was safe. 

 

You are here: Autobiography Selling Hashish in VIETNAM. Chapter 11 - Rantau Panjang

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