Archive for October, 2016

Bowl in Hand the Thief Arrives

Waiting at a China Street Corner

Helong Street at six-thirty in the morning when still suffused in yesterday’s smell of kerosene was a sinless world awake and the passer-by Hunshi Hans counted three girls, no men, and no customers. Here, dawn comes late. A life trying to keep up with the sun is difficult enough; there is no moon. A woman – a girl actually – stepped out from the shadows of the shop into the dim street light. I might have recognized her, though it is best not to. I could have seen her from yesterday or the day before talking to the fruit seller while they waited for customers, but mostly for nothing.

In these parts, things hadn’t been going at all well, so they have now resorted to pasting advertisements, little bigger than the size of a name card, on the pedestrian sidewalk. Yesterday or last week, why does it matter when, a child, she couldn’t have been more than six, stopped at one and pointed it to her father: the photos of two girls shot from the breast up in their bras and below them a phone number 083 7578 022. The father studied the photos like it was a restaurant menu. It is an advertisement, he answered the daughter. After which, they continued their way.

Haide Liang had called before five that morning, after which there was no time left to sleep. Replacing the receiver, I showered, skipped the hotel breakfast and headed for the Public Security Station of Helong district where the chief could be the answer to some of life’s practical questions – if he so wills. A summer’s been wasted already. Then Fall. Early winter’s chill hung in the air; the fog from the night hadn’t lifted. It’s an hour walk, without interruption.


The Thief Najib Razak should arrive anytime later today. They would roll out the red carpet, offer him handshakes then give the Mrs a bouquet. These are kampung Malay bumpkins, stepping out of a plane made by Americans, in winter fur from Harrods, while Alyaa Azhar of Malaysiakini tries emulating Reuters to impress the world with some contrived, trumped-up analysis about the finance of geopolitics when, really, all the man wanted was just some money which no western bank would lend to him — not after 1MDB. If Najib is so clever, he won’t be in this deep shit he is today.

There’s a problem though: in China, cash isn’t king and we, the Chinese of the World, don’t lend in dollars. We do make dumplings and leather handbags and winter coats and missiles.

Bank of China isn’t Goldman Sachs; it doesn’t issue bonds underwritten on some toilet vouchers and it doesn’t hand out cash. Nor is China any kind of dollar treasury bank, the kind that characterizes the Saudi Arabs — not anymore, those Mohammedans who can’t even cook a bowl of porridge much less sew an underwear or produce rolling stock for Keretapi Tanah Melayu. China’s money goes straight into rails and ports — no in-betweens, no bonds nor Tim Leissner, nor some Arab princely Turkey, no laundering needed especially — so Najib won’t be seeing cash in his AmBank account, and Rosmah would have to find another credit card to pay for her Hermes bags: “Your Visa, we are sorry, is no good Ma’am.

And those businessmen in the same jet? They are just the sides in the feast.


In Malaysia, only Malay counts, according to Kadir (above) and Syed Akbar: it is a fucked-up Malay world.


In the circumstance, what the fuck is that Kadir Jasin whining about, that asshole Mohammedan of Nusantara.

Najib railing at the Chinese of the DAP then, bowl in hand, going to the Chinese in Beijing. Kadir makes it look like the man is some grand strategist, and he the first Malaiyoo to discover the hypocrisy of Najib in the politics of race relations perfected by, no less, Mahathir Mohamad, Kadir’s racist-master. Najib “selling out”, did you say, Kadir? You mean, exactly the way your master had practiced it for 22 years?

Under the aegis of Mahathir’s ‘Save Malaysia’ campaign, Kadir speaks in terms of that agama, bangsa dan negara all over again. Because the Chinese are not heirs of Malaysia, the country is spoken off only in terms of being sold to the Chinese but never to Arabs nor to other Muslims, and not especially to another fucked-up Malay. Mahathir sold all of Sabah to the Sulus and the Muslims of Mindanao. Ever hear Kadir whine about ‘selling out’?

Here, Syed Akbar Ali bitches about 200,000 Malay graduates ‘unemployed’ when, really, again, they’re just simply unemployable. He complains about 6,000 GLC Malays ‘buang kerja‘, 7 million Malays waiting for BR1M handouts. When times were good, Syed Akbar — like Kadir, another motherfucking Malaiyoo — doesn’t complain that 200,000 Malays unemployable graduates still get employed; GLC jobs are distributed exclusively to 6,000 Malays; nor does he complain that Chinese businesses are squeezed for more tax collection for 7 million Malay handouts.

In a Malay-only world, in that fucked-up country called Malaysia, only Malays count. Others, they piss on whenever convenient, whether that’s by Najib or Jamal Yunos or Kadir or Mahathir it made for no difference to us.


I hadn’t seen Haide in almost three years. She’d run away from home, from the ducks and the northern mountain frost, in the belief that somehow, somewhere, in some city street corner, or factory, life can be constructed by design. All one needed was determination. On the phone, her voice was soft, to make a repayment. “I got some money. Lots. You need any? I’ll wire some to you.”

“No. I don’t need any.”

“But do you have any?”


“Do you want any?”

“No. Listen, my love. Keep the money. Keep it in the bank the way we used to. That way, you won’t be crying next month because you’ve run out.”

Then she went on about the bad weather, the phone bills, and an apartment friend who hadn’t yet returned from Wuhan. No luck there, too. The textile factory had gone to Vietnam and won’t be coming back. What to do? It’s barely ten degrees outside and she has only her summer clothes. Was she really concern for me? That evening, I received a WeChat photo, she stepping out of the booth in a boutique shop wearing a bright red overcoat. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she wrote in the caption.

Minute by minute, step by step, memories retreat and Helong Street blurs. You can tell from the dilapidation and the neglect that life here has been shot to bits. It’s only a mile along this street but takes forever. The girl from the shadow is insistent: The world when it insists on the truth is bound to find trouble.

Fifty, she said. “Please?” Just fifty lousy bucks and then ‘please’, said not once but thrice. She tugs at my sleeves, and I feel the softness of her breast against the upper arm. I permit the interruption, and then to cease this nonsensical tug-of-war: what’s fifty-nine seconds out of an hour. “No. Not now,” I stopped to say. “I’m really in a hurry. Sorry.”

Strange, saying sorry like this. But, she let go the arm and I watch her retreat back into the alley, head down, melting into the shadows.

I plugged in earphones, switching to 60 Decadent Songs 靡靡之音60首壹上. Sun Lu 孙露 has a raspy voice and sings the sort of thing you hear in American bluegrass. Drunk Heart 心醉:

  • Gone till the point of exhaustion / 已经走得好疲惫
  • The wind howls in the ear / 风 在耳边吹

Near the station, I removed the earphones. The Captain, a tall man, with dark complexion and a handsome face met me at the reception with a wide grin then threw an arm over my shoulders, above the part where the girl had leaned on to earlier. We went out into the foggy street to talk. “I have an idea; it’ll work this time,” he said but softly. We went for breakfast.



Sun Lu 孙露






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A Thief in China 骗子在中国

No, not rich. I am a poor man with money, which is not the same thing. — Gabriel Garcia Marquez


Serve the People 为人民服务? Najib used and still uses a public office, to wit, the Prime Minister’s department, to serve himself. The tragedy in Malaysia is that an entire Malay population — actively (Rahman Dahlan) and by acting ‘neutral’ (Annie of the Valley) — supports him serving himself, starting with a pious Islamist named Hadi Awang.


Najib in China

Judge Ley was making tea when we found him in his room overlooking a courtyard surrounded in a tiny forest of pines and maples. He looked up, straightened his back, took his mug to his desk, and rested his hand on a mouse. The desktop screen lit up. Sit, he said. No prior appointment was necessary; he knew why we were here.

“In my country, nobody visits the judge,” I once said to Lawyer Zhang, a tall woman with short hair and an exquisite face as smooth as glass. She emitted a look of incredulity and said: “Judges must serve the people” – wei renmin fuwu 为人民服务, the Communist Party slogan turned into a national punch line recited every October 1 when the President formally inspects the troops, lined up for two miles along Tiananmen in Beijing.

“Comrades! You have toiled hard,” the President would say.辛苦了》xinkule. And the troops shout in unison response: “Serve the people!” 《为人民服务》wei renmin fuwu.

Some renmin asshole had taken a loan, didn’t repay, not a fucking dime, we sued, but the court judgment was, for two years, unenforceable. Naturally. The whole damn business was a scam right from the beginning. Exactly like 1MDB, with debt issued under false pretenses, forged papers, dodgy companies, non-existent assets, and a whole lot of lies. All contracts are just toilet paper.

That renmin man, along with the money he borrowed, has since vanished. We are now in the process of converting the civil suit into a criminal case, using the charges of contempt and fraud. That should locked up that asshole for up to a good ten years – even if the money is repaid. Judge Ley had already issued a warrant of arrest. On our part, we want his scalp, spiked on the electric pylons of Tiananmen for the world to see. That bastard thief.

The fate of Najib Razak ought to be worse.

Debt-fraud happens all the time in this country, which so prizes the written word – it’s called hanzi, Najib. Language’s sacrosanct status means words are for trusting. But this gets flipped around instead and when sanctity becomes the lie, contract fraud soon takes up more than half of Lawyer Zhang’s pending case files. Money’s gone, fraudster has disappeared, and nearly eighty percent of judgments delivered each year in China are unenforceable.

As for justice….

The problem, said a member of the People’s Congress, the city’s highest policy and law making institution, is with the people, the renmin. Unlike people in your country, they have no respect for the law. It was obvious the man from the Standing Committee hadn’t heard of Najib Razak. Nor Khalid Abu Bakar. Nor Apandi Ali.

Six months past, there has been no arrest. The judge knew, of course, and didn’t wait for us to start. He sipped his tea and said, “China is a big country. Many mountains and valleys and hidden caves.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not like we hadn’t tried and we have worked hard at it.”

From somewhere came, I swear, the crow of a cockerel. In Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s No One Writes to the Colonel is the pairing of a cockerel and a lawyer.

I shot back: “America is a big country, too. And they always catch their bastards.” Lawyer Zhang stared at me, like as if the heavens had fallen over us. She laid a palm on my arm, gripped it gently, and signaled with her other hand below the desk top.

“It is like this,” she intervened, gazing at the judge. “You are a man of the law, a man of great learning, of culture, trying to do police work. Doesn’t work and, really, you shouldn’t trouble yourself in this way. Leave the work to the police; they are the professionals; they find the thief, they capture him. We have made arrangements with them. You sign the warrant over to the police. Once they find him, they will detain him temporarily until you arrive and they hand him over to you. Can you agree?”

The judge lit a cigarette and leaned back on his chair, as if dissolving into its soft leather. He is a small man with thin hair and is never seen to have smiled.

I seized on the opportunity: Of course, we’d be happy to cover all expenses including overtime and travel, especially for the weekends and if the arrest was made outside the city. Outside could be a thousand miles away. That’s only fair. Ten percent from all proceeds recovered. I lifted then crossed two forefingers in the Chinese script sign 十. This reaffirms the offer is ten and not four.

If that had come from the thief, it would be evasion of the law and it would be bribery; and we would be done in. But, we are paying for justice instead. Which is different for the reason it also fetches a price.

Muhyiddin Yassin completely overlooks the point when talking of the way Najib’s been handling the 1MDB fallout. To Muh, and from all outside appearances, the Bugis pendatang seems such a smart aleck to leave the impression that all is well while police in three countries trip over each other to catch the motherfuckers. Muh doesn’t know this: it’s the way with thieves and Najib is no different; they simply do nothing, say nothing, lay low, vanishing into a vacuum of silence.

It is been the same with that renmin bastard. The longer he is able to persist, to evade, the safer he feels. Muh couldn’t be more wrong about Najib’s handling. There is no magic to it; Najib has only to wait for the storm to pass, throwing up decoys in the meantime.

We, on the other hand, get more desperate.

Najib’s time in China helps the waiting to endure while he remains hidden in a fog of a platitudinous language courtship issued by the media named Bernama: ‘partnership, huge opportunities, transforming lives, reshaping the region, a better world‘. He sees himself in the shadow of a powerful ally and, by all appearances, backing him when no auditor at home would touch 1MDB. Even the language of Najib is fraudulent, like that of the renmin asshole.

These days, China despises nothing more than fraudsters and thieves — only because they are everywhere. But, like Najib, she, too, knows how to wait pretending.

Outside, there is a smell of Fall. Brown and yellow maple leaves carpet the sidewalk of loyang jie, Loyang Street. You think ten percent was enough, I asked Lawyer Zhang. She smiled, unraveling a pair of dimples. Our problem isn’t nailing that thief. It’s the judge. Isn’t it? This time, she nodded, looking serious.

We entered a restaurant and all conversation ceased. A young waitress came over, poured tea, and took our orders. “To justice,” Lawyer Zhang said, lifting the small tea cup in a gesture of a toast.

“Yes. To ten percent. Then to justice.”

“You were in America,” Lawyer Zhang went on. “What’s the restaurant tip?”

“Fifteen percent.”

“Expensive service.”



1MDB kakis: Paul Stadlen has good reason to smile and live it up; the kakis just made off with a good billion. In public they talk of transforming lives and a better world. After that, they drown us in their piss and actually believe they are a big deal — this bunch of  小人.


Chinese style justice — zhengyi — for the Thief in China.

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Tell the truth and you don’t have to remember anything. — Mark Twain


Don’t laugh. But, if you’d ask (and nobody actually does), Najib talking truth is like asking MO1 to confess his greatest true love. Choose one:

  • A) Mongolian translator (dead),
  • B) Rosmah (alive),
  • C) US dollar banknotes (impounded),
  • D) The 72 Virgins of Heaven (ISIS futures contract).

All are true in Najib; some truer than others.

Then there are his sycophants, mouthing the same platitudes, like that Brickhead who joins Najib’s righteousness, talking decency and civility: So profound; we’re dumbfounded. However much they pretend, then troll out, no Brickhead nor any Lady in the Valley has anything in them, nor in their truths, that’s ever worth a fuck.

In one bare line, without proclaiming truth nor decency, Zaid Ibrahim is more revolutionary than the trite of Najib’s yada-yada brickheads and Valley ladies spewing so much truth and civilities.

The Truth (as understood by Najib)


[the update]


Behold! The Queen of Blogs

In this title, it’s easy to imagine Annie on a pole-dance podium doing the striptease. Down to the last thread, oozing sex and juice and thighs and raining in adulation, she yells over the whistles and catcalls, “Guys, behave yourselves!“.

In that instant, the crowd quietens. One word from Annie, the Assholes obey.

It is the new Malaysian standard in blogging: Annie’s Tease. A bunch of servile, adoring readers — Annie’s Assholes — who provide the audience and there’s the Lady who provides the act. The audience is three million-strong today, a ranking close to Helen of Angst.

Annie must feel really important: so much control, so many fannies, so much juice, so much trope, and she at the center of it all. She is the new Queen of Blogs.

Keep it up, Queenie. The Valley needs you.

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屌不过 = Not worth a fuck


One man, who happens to be the Prime Minister of Malaysia, going by the name Najib bin Razak, sits in the middle of a maelstrom that for six years had, in a scale of 50-to-60 billion ringgit, seen fraud, theft, embezzlement, money laundering, debt disappeared, unrivalled hedonism, death and murder (in that order) can still pretend that nothing has happened — absolutely nothing — just like his online carriers that, not coincidentally, share the same abject names like Dog, Rock, SeaDemon, Brick, all of who, on any ordinary day, wouldn’t be worth a fuck, 屌不过 diao buguo, as we, the Chinese say, and yet they all claim to sit next to Allah — some God, indeed — singing the same tired tunes and making threats like some motherfucking PAS mullahs and Umno ustaz, Umno-Daeesh thugs, Umno police and Umno paid-ministers, they surrounded the outside by hordes of Chinese, yellow shirts, foreigners, westerners, Jews, conspirators and plotters threatening and provoking them their sinless, so-motherfucking-pure Islamic world that never tires with pretenses, their good cop-bad cop routine, smart guy-dumb guy,…

(good cop Najib: don’t call Indians pendatang and keling; only whisper it.)

(good cop, tough cop)

(bad, tough cop)


(smart guy, dumb ones below)

that can turn food either godly or ungodly,…

while they, their wives and mistresses cover in filthy extravagance, waiting for an admiring glance or a flattering word,…

(That watch, according to someone, is worth RM618,000, in case, dear reader, you are interested.)

fuck the Cinagui, they would whisper among themselves,…

after which they wouldn’t mind taking the Melayu for a ride, no GST (‘some more’, as they say),…


exactly the way Najib would do it using 1MDB, coupled with his fat bomoh and friends, below.


All not worth a fuck — and that goes for you especially, Annie, the ‘Lady of the Valley’ (sic), who disingenuously feigns her indifference to utter immorality and her pretense to grand larceny by calling her hypocrisy ‘neutrality’ — but which makes Mahathir Mohamad right for once, below.


Above, cited in Syed Akbar Ali. Below, the genuine Nusantara Melayu (pictures from wowshack) that Anwar Ibrahim and Kadir Jasin and Syed Akbar (and Mahathir) had help corrupt, destroy then advanced to pave the way for the emergence of the world’s greatest, holiest, desert motherfucker named Najib bin Razak.


Sulawesi dancers, above and below, Bali seamstress, circa 1930.



Dayak woman, above and below, Yogya mother and daughter.



Papuan women, above and below, Minangkabau wedding dress.


Javanese, above and below, circa 1920.


Now, take those above and compare them to the Malays in the year 2016 (clip below), their descendants having immigrated to Malaysia, and Kadir, who has argued that Malays ought to be Muslim first and Melayu second so that his kind has progressed! No shit, Kadir  — this pathetic Malaiyoo boy.

So glad we ain’t in that shit hole named Malaishit; we have bigger dreams and smaller ambitions.




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