My Hero

“Pablo Escobar is my hero.” The man said it without a glimmer of irony or sarcasm. He was serious. It was an interesting choice to pick a Columbian drug smuggler as your hero, particularly in a country where drug possession could see you hanging from the gallows. “He’s very strong.” The man said, in an attempt to justify his choice. He repeated it a few times, his eyes filled with delight each time he said it. “Very strong.”

I was changing hotels on Pangkor island. A welcome weekend destination for local tourists and the occasional foreigner, the island was relatively quiet, especially compared to its Thai counterparts. I’d spent a few nights on the west coast of the island, near the beaches and a few good places to eat at night. I had an early bus ride scheduled for the following day so I was moving to the other side of the island to be close to the ferry terminal.

Transport around the island—aside from personal motorbikes, bicycles and the occasional car—was primarily taxi vans. Covered in hot pink paint, the vans moved at a steady pace, transporting people from one side of the island to the other. I had shared a taxi when I arrived with a pair of Dutch tourists, and therefore was able to split the $6 fee, but I knew that I’d probably have to foot the entire bill in a taxi by myself on the way back. Not a huge fee, but it felt like a waste when the taxi could have easily taken nine other people with me.

When I checked out, the hotel called me a cab and one quickly arrived. I was greeted by an Indian man with a small red dot painted into the space between his eyes. A small drop of paint trickled down the side of his nose as he helped me put my bag in the back. I didn’t know why we needed to put my bag in the back, I had an entire van to myself. He seemed a little odd, his mouth seemed to be smiling but his eyes weren’t. He also didn’t seem to know the hotel I was going to despite the very small size of the island which only had a handful of hotels. But there was only one main road to travel on so I wasn’t too concerned. I got inside and he started driving away. He stopped a few metres down the street and insisted I sit in the front with him. I got out and joined him up front.

The man explained his family had lived in Pangkor for four generations. He said he enjoyed the natural beauty of the island, the calm beaches and the sparkling reefs. He said this all while scrolling Youtube on his phone and trying to take over a car on a tight bend. He sped up aggressively and quickly, he seemed to be in a bit of a rush for our five kilometre journey. He wasn’t on island time.

He turned up the hip hop music on the stereo. “I love this song.” He said emphatically and with much enthusiasm. “Me too.” I answered, in an attempt to try to bond with the driver. I didn’t like the song but, unlike most hip hop music, I actually had heard it before, though I had to Google it after. It was Coolio’s ‘Gangsta’s Paradise,’ which I later discovered had been used in ‘Narcos’—the Netflix series detailing Pablo Escobar’s life.

When I was at high school the Israeli madrichim, brought to our school to educate us about all the ‘fun’ parts of Judaism and to make the religion seem ‘cool,’ had made a parody video using the same song. They had swapped lyrics in a song about a life of impoverishment in Compton’s black ghettos in the 1990s to an explanation of the totally hip aspects of Jewish life and learning. That is how I knew the song. On account of the ever-increasing number of Palestinian flags I found hanging around Malaysia, I decided against telling my new friend this humorous anecdote.

We reached a bend in the road and a lookout over the ocean. The driver turned off the stereo and pulled into a spot overlooking the water, without saying why. This didn’t feel right to me. There were five monkeys crawling over the asphalt. The driver stuck his head out of the window and started talking to the monkeys for a minute or two. He then returned to the road and turned the rap music back up on the stereo. We never spoke of what happened.

He returned to his love of the song and linked it to his love of a notorious Colombian drug lord. I tried pressing further as to what he liked most about Pablo Escobar but he merely repeated the same thing. “Very strong.”

He asked me what my name was. “I’m Ash. And your name?” I asked, expecting an Indian name. “Stephen.” He responded. “Stephen?” “Yes, Stephen.” I looked up at the ID card hanging off of the rearview mirror. His name definitely wasn’t Stephen. Or if it was, that wasn’t his ID. Either way, if he wanted to be a drug smuggler he really needed to improve his lying game.