Buboy

I stripped down to my undies and splashed cool water from the Country Club Hotel wash basin over my face and chest. The humidity had sapped my energy. I was in Brunei, a strict Muslim country, to run photography workshops and this was day one.

Click! I heard my hotel door open. I stopped dead still, listening. Then I heard a couple of footsteps and  a shuffling noise. I looked out from the bathroom in time to see a young Bruneian man leaning over all my photography gear on the bed, starting to pick up my cameras and lenses.

'Hoy' I shouted.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Some garbled non-sensical words came from his mouth. Then he turned 180 degrees and walked quickly out the door.

I followed him, barefoot and dressed just in my black underdaks. He looked over his shoulder and picked up speed. So did I. Along a corridor, down some steps. I followed. He started running. I started jogging. I didn't reflect on the dilemma of a half naked man jogging through a hotel in a Muslim country. The intruder turned right around a corner and disappeared.

When I got back to my room I rang my Brunei contact. She insisted I officially report the incident as stealing.  She explained stealing from rooms at the Country Club had become commonplace. She urged me to do something about it. I contacted the hotel manager and reported the incident.

Thirty minutes later a local policeman and a security guard were sitting in my hotel room and I was making a statement. They organised a line-up of a dozen hotel staff. I recognised the intruder immediately and pointed to him. He let out  loud garbled sound, turned and ran off for the second time that day. Other staff pursued him and apprehended him. 'Well, that's the end of that' I thought, 'Job done!'  How wrong could I be.

The Filipino manager pleaded with me not to press charges.  He explained it could cost him and other Filipino staff their jobs. My Brunei contact still insisted  I press charges. I was between a rock and a hard place. I decided to sleep overnight on the dilemma. But I didn't get the chance.

At about 11pm that same night I returned from a pasta and red wine* at a downtown Italian eatery. As I entered the foyer the hotel manager approached me and spoke nervously. His job was on the line. He had obviously been waiting for my return.
'The boy's parents are here to talk to you. They've driven 140 kilometres just to see you.'
His voice was nervous and shaking; his job and future at stake.
'Ok, sure', I agreed.

The intruder's middle-aged mother and father and I sat in a dimly lit alcove and drank tea.  The manager looked on nervously from the reception desk. The lobby was empty and quiet. The boys father smiled reassuringly at me and spoke calmly.
'My son Buboy (pronounced Boo-boy) went to the your room by mistake when delivering a pizza'
'No', I replied 'There was no pizza, he was there to steal my cameras. He did not knock.'
'Our son has a learning disability. I am scared that if he goes to jail it will be bad for him'
'I'm sorry, but your son has done the wrong thing.He has to accept the consequences'

Buboy's father changed demeanour. His smile faded. He leant across the coffee table and lowered his voice.
'I have had the Shell catering contract here for 14 years. I am a very influential man. I have many powerful friends in Brunei. If you press charges I will have you deported within 24 hours'

Clap of thunder. New situation. Deportation. That won't look pretty. He was serious.

I took a deep breath.
'OK, if I don't press charges, what will you do for me?'
'What do you want?' he asked
'I want you to guarantee, in writing, that if any of my camera gear goes missing, you will replace it'
He smiled.
''That's not a problem' he said.

The manager brought us pen and paper. We signed the agreement.

I pressed my case further.
'Also, I want the locks changed on my hotel room'
'That's too expensive', he said, 'but I have many staff, I'll supply a personal security guard for the remainder of your stay'
'OK, that's a deal'
I shook his hand and bid him and his silent wife  good night.

oOo

Three days later I travelled north to the six star Empire Hotel to continue the workshop. I had to check out of my regular hotel at the Country Club and check back in again on return from the Empire. It was almost midnight. The Country Club was in darkness; everything was locked. The couple who had provided my transport sat in the car while I knocked on doors, windows and called out. Not a soul anywhere.

I saw a sliver of light coming from under a roller door near the kitchen area. From behind the roller door I heard loud thumping and banging like someone being bludgeoned to death with a heavy instrument. I banged on  the metal roller door.

'Hellooo, anybody there?'

The thumping ceased. Silence.

Then the roller door was slowly raised.

The apparition in front of me was barely believable. There stood Buboy with a 14 inch bloodied butcher's knife in his right hand. His white shirt was completely splattered in blood and bits of gore. Like a scene from the Texas chain saw massacre.

'Buboy, I need a room, can you get me a key to a  room?'

Buboy let out some more garbled untelligible twitter. His mental disability was matched by a verbal disability.

'Its Ok Buboy, don't worry, I'll telephone the manager.'

The couple in the car were incredulous. They looked white, as if they had seen a ghost.

'Dale, we can't believe you are talking to a guy with a meat cleaver covered in blood in the middle of the night. The same guy that broke into your room a couple of days ago'.

The manager arrived dressed in after-hours casual clothes and gave me a key to my new room. All was well.

oOo

On the morning I was due to leave Brunei I was sitting alone in the dining room having breakfast.

'Where's Buboy' I asked the waitress.

She looked hesitant.

'He's in the kitchen' she replied.

'Can you go and ask Buboy and the kitchen staff to come here so I can say goodbye to them.'

She returned a few minutes later with Buboy sheepishly tagging along. I went up to Buboy

'Buboy, you did the wrong thing going into my room. You know that. But I don't want to be bad friends. I want to be friends with you.'

We shook hands.

'Now, can I make a photograph of you?' I asked.

I stood on a chair, camera in hand and photographed Buboy with the kitchen staff.
I smiled. Buboy did his version of a smile.
It was no longer unfinished business.

oOo

footnote:
Buboy was working for a Filipino gang. They gang stayed at a safe distance from break-ins, armed with bags to carry off stolen goods. They reckoned that if the 'stooge' was captured, he would get off because he was the son of  a very powerful Brunein man and he was intellectually handicapped.  As it turned out, they were dead right.

* (In Brunei you must buy a licence for the bottle of wine  and only the people whose names are on the licence can drink from it.)