My sex life started at a very young age, with some rather peculiar antics, which even I, am not prepared to elaborate on (Girls, you know who you are). By the time I was 8, I was a spent force. A drunken fumble in 1984, aged 15, with my sisters university flat mate, was a mere oasis in a desert of shyness. I left school in 1985, aged 16, a virgin and only having kissed 2 girls in my teenage years. So when the opportunity of a blind date turned up, I was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
It's a particularly cold winters night in early December of 1985. There has been some early snow and a layer of fog has enveloped the Rossendale valley. The phone rings and I hear my mate Chris Mayer on the other end. The background noise, alerts me to the fact that Chris is in a phone box. I glance at my watch and see that it is 5.30pm. I make a mental note that he must be on the way home from work. His voice seems, sort of muffled and his words are spoken quickly. He informs that he is down to his last 10 pence, hence the rapid conversation.
I am writing this story, 25 years later, so the accuracy of the following conversation has obviously been tainted - but it went something like this.
Chris: Hi Andy
Me: Alright, what you up to?
Chris: I've set up a date for you.
Me: Really, who with?
(my imagination is aroused)
Chris: She's called Denise.
Me: What's she like?
Chris: erghh, not bad. She's a proper goer, I've heard.
Let me take a minute here to share some retrospective thoughts. 1, Why was he giving me an opportunity to lose my virginity, when he was himself a virgin. 2, Why was he giving me an opportunity of anything at all, when he was as desperate for a girlfriend as I was. Unfortunately my 16 year old, sex obsessed mind neglected to conjure up these thoughts at the time.
Me: Really (I'm feeling a stirring in my under carriage).
Chris: Yeah, she's really keen to meet you. I've told her loads about you.
Me: Oh yeah, what did you say?
Chris: I've told her that you have a motorbike.
This is true, for the past 6 months or so, I have been in possession of a Honda MT 50. When I bought it, I was totally taken in by the looks and extremely blase to the performance (it looks like a scramble bike with knobbly tyres). In hindsight I should have got a Yamaha FS1E, which in the words of my mates are like "shit off a shovel". However, my teenage judgement got the better of me and I ended up with a hairdryer on wheels.
Me: Where does she live?
Chris: Bacup.
Me: Fucking hell. I knew there had to be a catch.
Bacup, for anybody not familiar with the Rossendale valley, is the arse end of the world. A place where the following incidents have occurred. 1, A guy hand gliding over the town centre, was shot down by kids with air rifles. 2, A group of nuns, who had moved into the area to help out with social problems, had a dustbin on fire thrown through their window. 3, The Rossendale Free Press (local rag)reported on a guy that had been prosecuted on 26 accounts of necrophilia, at a Bacup morgue. 4, Chris and I had been attacked on 2 occasions by gangs of street youths. The second occasion Chris was left in hospital for 3 days. Needless to say, this place is rough and not a place that a 16 year old virgin riding a hair dryer really wants to go for his first blind date.
Chris: She said that you have to meet her at the main Bacup bus stop at 6.30.
Me: Ergh ergh.
By the time I have had time to compose myself, Chris's money has run out. I am left talking to the dialling tone.
Ten minutes later, I head off into a chilly, foggy, dark Rossendale evening, full of trepidation, but longing for some sexual action. As I trundle along, I am struggling to focus. My mind is all consumed with thoughts of a sexual nature. Oh god, please let me at least lose my finger virginity.
The journey between my parents home in Helmshore and Bacup town centre is around 7 miles, which in a car does not seem very far at all. However, on a cold winters night, on my Honda MT 50 hair dryer the journey seems to last forever. I hit the Queens Arms traffic lights in Rawtenstall (the half way point) and notice that the Burnley bus is stopped at the lights in the opposite direction. I know that this is the bus that Chris catches home from work, so I cast a glance through the windows. We notice each other at the same time and I wave to him. As he waves back, a large smile spreads across his face, which stinks of suspicion. I have no time to dwell on this because the lights change to green.
As I arrive at Bacup town centre, I notice a group of girls are hanging around the bus stop. I pull up on the opposite side of the road and consider my course of action. Shit, I was not expecting this. I cast a glance at my watch and see that it has already turned 6.30. Oh no, what am I to do? I contemplate turning around and heading back to Helmshore but am hesitant to do so because I am desperate for some action. What if she really is a goer? I can't let an opportunity like this fall by the wayside.
It's too late, my uncertain behaviour has grabbed the attention of the girls, who are now beckoning me over. I ride my moped over at super slow speed. In my mind I am sort of hoping that I never actually make it. Maybe I'll get hit by a bus on the way over and never have to face the girls. My shyness has totally kicked in now. My mind has won the battle, my libido retreats like a tortoise back into its shell.
I pull up at the bus stop and one of the girls shouts out, "Are you here to see Denise like?". I want to say no, but I hear myself saying "yes". It does not actually matter what I've said because the girls can't hear me. A mixture of nerves and a overall feeling of not wanting to be seen as resulted in me not pulling my helmet visor up. "What's he on about"? I hear one of the girls say. "I don't know ", one of the others interjects, "he's got his helmet on". Through my steamed up visor I can only make out the girls gleaming white stiletto heals. They are all wearing the same tacky shoes. "He must be fucking ugly", another of the girls shouts and they all cackle like witches. "Take your helmet off love, lets get a look at your fisog (face)". I am in the process of carrying out this latest request, when Denise is thrust upon me. I pull off my helmet to be faced by a rabid beast.
"Hey, he's not bad you know", the ringleader calls out, "I wouldn't mind having a dabble with him myself". "You can fuck off he's mine", are Denise's first words and with that she grabs my hand and claims me, as if I were her baggage on an airport carousel. "Come on love, lets go back to mine". She storms off up the hill, still holding my hand and I am forced to wheel my moped with my legs. "Good luck love", I hear one of the girls shout as I we disappear into the distance towards one of the roughest council estates in England.
Her house is fronted by a small garden which is covered in snow. An old battered fence surrounds the garden and there is a gate which is hanging by one hinge. A distinct path has been trodden through the snow to the front door and I elect to push my bike up this path for fear of it being stolen. This is no mean task because there is an incline to the front door. I slip and slide but eventually park it up in front of the front window. The task complete, I am beckoned into the house by Denise, with the promise of a cup of tea.
They say if you want to see what the girl is going to look like then you should see her mother. Her mother is the first thing that I see as I enter the house. It is plain to see where Denise acquired her bad looks. The mum has a face like a robbers dog and body that even Jerry Springer would reject from his show. Worse than that, are the tattoo's which adorn her arms. They are a mixture of very badly done real ones and home made ones which are even worse. The one that catches my attention the most is big, red love heart with an arrow cutting through it. The word mum is written in the middle of the heart. Is this in honour of her own mother? a present from one of the kids or is she self obsessed? My mind is awash with thoughts, caused by a mixture of nerves and genuine curiosity.
Mum: Ooooh our Denise, he looks freezing love. Bring him in and warm him up. (mum laughs at her own sentence).
We are ushered into the living room, where I see that Top of the Pops has just started. I am glad of the distraction. The next 30 mins are amongst the most uncomfortable of my entire existence to this day. The mum wanders into the kitchen and Denise plonks herself on the sofa and immediately wraps her legs around mine.
Denise: Are you gonna kiss me?
Me: Do you want me too? (obviously shitting myself).
Denise: What do you think?
I think that I have made a grave mistake. I think that Chris Mayer is a cunt. I think that I am never going on a blind date again. I think I'd better keep these thoughts to myself.
She gives me no time to articulate my thoughts anyway. I open my mouth to reply and find myself in the middle of an involuntary French kiss. She dives on me like a life guard on a drowning man and we wrestle around on the sofa. I think that she see's my spasms as kinky, she does not realise that I am trying to escape from her. My eyes dart around the living room and I am alarmed to see many, many photo's of kids. Sons, daughters, grandsons, granddaughters, niece's, nephews -you name it, they are there. I'm talking all 4 walls covered in photo's of children.
The mum walks back into the room, 3 cups of tea in her hand and immediately latches onto my focus of attention.
Mum: We love to have kids in this family love. Only our Denise to go now and that'll be my lot until the grand kids start having em. She's already had 2 abortions you know, she's waiting for Mr Right.
Denise, does not seem put off by her mothers re-entry to the living room or indeed her comments. She continues to probe her tongue around my mouth, with little regard for my lack of response or her mothers presence.
Mum: Oh, she likes you alright love. Come on our Denise, let the lad drink his tea.
Denise, eventually releases her clinch and I launch for my cup of tea. Tea in hand, I divert my attention to top of the pops. Denise and her mum continue to watch my every move in a rather uncomfortable fashion. They seem to be giving each other secret messages, thinking that I am not looking. I choose to ignore their behaviour and focus on top of the tops, and that's when they start to have a conversation as though I was not sitting right down next to them.
Mum: Fucking hell Denise, you've done alright there. He's better than the usual scum you bring home.
Denise: Yeah, he's from Helmshore - posh end of the valley.
Mum: Well, you better hang on to him. It's about time we saw some of yours on the wall.
In unison, their eyes flick around the walls in admiration of their family offspring, then come to rest on my cowering body. The mum flashes me a toothless smile and Denise's squeezes my hand. To add insult to injury, Jennifer Rush is on top of the pops bellowing out the Power of Love. Inside my mind I am hatching a plan.
If I pretend I am going to the toilet, I can be out of the front door, on my moped and down the path way before they even notice I am gone. Ok, there are a few flaws in this plan, as I am about to find out but it is worth a crack. Right now I am petrified, in fact I am wondering whether this is enough to put me off sex for life. The pictures of all those kids on the wall are going to be the cause of sweat drenched nightmares for years. Babies, horrible ugly babies, kids, grubby horrible kids, the mums toothless smile and oh god, the reassuring hand squeeze - all to the backdrop of Jennifer Rush (the power of love). That's it, I have to go.
Me: Erm, where's your toilet?
Mum: Denise love, show him where the toilet is (she had never bothered to ask my name).
Denise: Follow me babe, I'll take you up. (the grip on my hand tightens).
Me: No bother, I'll be back in a flash, I'm dying for a pee. (I break free from my shackles and head for the door).
Mum: Up the stairs and 2nd door on the left love.
For the past 5 minutes I have been fumbling through my pockets with my left hand, to try and locate the ignition key for my moped. I have singled it out from the bunch and now hold it firmly between my thumb and fore finger. I leave the living room, closing the door behind me and grab my helmet from the hallway . I lunge at the front door. "Fuck, fuck, fuck", the latch is on. As I fumble with the mechanism, the noise seems deafening. Through the closing titles of Top of the Pops, I hear Denise and her mum musing over what the noise is. I manage to sort the latch out just in time. As I bolt through the door, I see the handle on the living room door turn downwards.
I throw my helmet on, stick the key in the ignition and start the moped with lightning precision. By the time Denise and her mum have reached the front door, I am halfway down the snow filled garden. I hear them shouting obscenities as my bike crashes through the gate. The one hinge gives way and I literally take it with me. I am saved by the knobbly tyres on my MT50 hairdryer, which cut through the snow.
At the bottom of the estate, I cast a look back and am relieved to see that they have not given chase. I finally relax, as I head back to the posh end of the Valley.
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
Unlucky charms
This tale starts almost a week into a trip to Burma. I've met up with my aptly named friend of 25 years, Dangerous Dave, who having just ended a 4 year marriage, is on his way to start a new life in Vietnam as an English teacher. To summarise, Dave and I met up a week earlier in Bangkok, before hopping on a flight to Yangon, a few days there and an horrendous overnight bus journey to the romantically titled Mandalay, where we hired 2 scooters and have spent a most enjoyable 4 days riding across Burma. This week in itself will eventually make it into one of my life stories but for now I will concentrate on the latter part of our trip.
The day begins with drama, is sandwiched with even more drama and ends in melodrama, worthy of any James Bond script. We are now in the beautiful Inle lake area, where we spent a dramatic, previous day in the middle of the lake, watching our supposedly experienced canoe captain, cowering from the rapturous cracks of thunder and almost blinding lightning strikes which threaten to bombard our vessel at a distance of approximately 100 metres. Even the usually unflappable Dangerous Dave is passing comment on how too close for comfort the strikes actually are. He exclaims that he has never seen lightning hit the water before. I assume it is nerves that drives our laughter, whilst in an seemingly unlaughable situation. That is, moored up to a post in the middle of an enormous lake, nature throwing all it as at us, with our captain, cowering in the back of the canoe, shielding himself with an umbrella. He assures us that, to his knowledge, only one person has ever died on the lake from a lightning strike. I am not convinced but it is the only consolation I have to offer my mind.
How we ever made it out of that lake alive is only for god to answer but here we are a day later, leisurely breakfasting before setting off on out scooter for a 200 km stretch of mountainous terrain. In retrospect, we were never going to do this in one day, as it happens this was not written in the script anyway. Exiting the breakfast hall we meet our canoe captain, who appears to have much larger testicles than the last time we saw him. He wears a smile upon his countenance which is as wide as his frowns of yesterday were long. The reason for his joyous behaviour, we are to find out is the fact that we are all alive to enjoy another breakfast. Of the twenty or so canoes that were on the lake the previous day, one had been hit by lightning with the loss of one and serious injury of 2 others. It seems that our concerns were not unfounded after all.
We depart Inle Lake, glad to be alive and full of excitement for our forthcoming trip to Bagan. With far too much confidence, we crack on at a pace which is certainly far faster than the roads or our brakes should allow. Before we even leave the immediate area of the lake, I have been in a heart murmuring slide of the back wheel, which miraculously terminates before I slam into a wall. Dangerous Dave and I race through the mountains between Inle Lake and Kalauw, with pleasure pumping through our veins, as we pass everything on the road, including, cars, trucks, buffalo and cart, tractors, motorcycles and check points (which we are supposedly supposed to stop at). We reach our lunchtime destination of Kalauw in time for brunch. We have stayed here for 2 days already and therefore know the exact restaurant that we are heading for. The 7 sisters restaurant, run by -wait for it- the ancestors of 7 sisters. Great food, slow service but lovely people. The slow service is not too important because we have made up enough time to allow for a drawn out brunch.
Throughout the journey, Dave has decided that his helmet is not a necessity and in turn I have stupidly elected to discard of my own helmet. As we leave the 7 sisters restaurant, heartily foddered and watered, I tie my helmet to the back of my bike (much to the disdain of the 7 sisters ancestors) and we accelerate off into the distance with the staff waving us goodbye. Little do they know that I am to be back there within 15 minutes and then again within 30 minutes.
Dave sets the pace and I follow, not too far behind, shooting through the checkpoint on the edge of the village as we have become accustomed. We have been warned, that in this country of military junta, we will be stopped, cross examined and told to turn back. In reality, the guys at the checkpoint wave to us as we fly by, with no helmets and exceeding the speed limit by some considerable margin. What follows is a dangerous set of hairpin bends, which continue for around 10 km, as we make our way down the mountain. Rapidly descending the mountain, I briefly take note of the flower seller as she waves her wares at me. Our paths are to cross again in the very near future.
As often happens, my intuition tells me that something is not quite right. I turn around to discover that I have lost my helmet, somewhere on the mountain. Realising that Dave is too far ahead of me, I turn around and ride back up the mountain in search of my redundant head gear. Once again I ride past the flower seller, who is frantically waving her flowers at me. I casually think to myself, "It's a helmet I need love, not your flowers". It does not occur to me that she may have actually found my helmet. By now, Dave has managed to realise that I am no longer in his shadow and has met me on the mountain. I leave him searching for my helmet as I head back into the village. Before I know it, I am back at the 7 sisters and have been given a new helmet. With much determination I get the family to accept $10 from me and tell them that if I find my helmet, I will be back (I don't think for one minute that this will be a reality).
Once again I begin my descent of the mountain, taking a second to wave at the security check point guards, who are by now, almost too inanimate to lift their arms. In the distance, I see that Dave is standing next to the flower seller in a bus shelter type structure. I also notice that the flower seller is holding my helmet. She speaks no English but it is not hard to deduce that she has recovered my helmet and now wishes to sell me a flower (which turn out to be lucky charms). I delve in my wallet and give the lady $2. Dave also buys a flower which he wears around his neck. He informs me that this is the first lucky charm that he has ever bought. In hindsight of what is to come, I assume that this is going to be his last. This village is beginning to feel like the village of the damned. Will I ever escape? Off I go, back up to the 7 sisters restaurant to trade my helmet back in for $10. This time, the security post guards don't even bother to look.
Returning to the bus shelter, I give the flower seller the $10. The look on her face is enough for me to understand that she has never even seen a $10 note before. Upon further investigation, I notice a semi naked baby in the shelter. Dave later tells me that, through a process of gesticulations he understands this to be her child and the bus shelter to be her home. I leave, feeling happy to have given the lady the money but confused about global inequalities.
After, far too many false starts, Dangerous Dave and I finally set off, destination Bagan. Typically Dave sets the pace and I follow in relatively close pursuit. The scenery on this section of the trip is breathtaking, beautiful mountain valleys of lush greenness, farmers tending to their paddy fields, buffalo grazing by the roadside and people happily waving to us, oblivious to the poverty they exist in. Dave and I are really motoring by now and even running out of fuel does not break our spirit. I merely coast down the mountainside until I come across a roadside stall with bottles of fuel. These are everywhere in Burma and make life very convenient. What is slightly worrying however, is the fact that we are blatantly heading into storm. With each KM we cover, the sky turns a darker shade of grey.
I guess that a wiser man would say that the odds of finishing this trip in one piece are not in our favour. We are on bikes that have slightly defective braking mechanisms, going far too fast, down hairpin mountain bends, on roads that are so pot holed they can barely be defined as such. There are so many obstacles, such as buffalo, people, trucks and tractors, that at times it seems like you are playing a computer game. This is especially pertinent because I am listening to the Prodigy on my headphones, at full blast -thus setting my mood. Add to this that we are donned only in a pair of shorts with our crash helmets tied to the back of our bikes. Some may call it stupid, some may call it irresponsible, others reckless; I call it fun and a real sense of living.
Village after village passes us by and we are received by the same response at each one. Those lazing by the roadside, leap from their vegetative state to wave at us, roadside construction workers (usually ladies), leave their posts to frantically gesticulate, soldiers, police, farmers and just about any other profession you can think of, cast us a smile, as we race on by. This is life turned up to 11, I feel as alive as a man can get. The dark clouds looming on the horizon, it could be argued, are an indication of what is about to occur.
The roads have been particularly bad, as we approach our impromptu end. Just before the final village of our trip, we make one last stop to retrieve the water bottle which has flown out of Dave's basket. Examining Dave's bike, we think that he has cracked the frame in half. Fortunately it turns out that the plastic has come slightly loose. It would have come as no surprise if the frame was cracked in half, I must confess. With the damage report carried out we head off again, at lightning pace.
As we enter the final village, Dave, thankfully is in the lead by around 5 seconds. We cast our customary waves at the village folks and weave our way through the settlement. I see Dave disappear over the crest of a hill, although I am unaware that this will be the last time I will see him and his machine connected. As I race over the same hillside, I am confronted with a scene of carnage with Dave's bike spinning out of control and his body performing involuntary gymnastic moves. There are several trucks creating obstacles on the road and I am assuming these are the cause of Dave's spill. The cause of Dave's spill is revealed to me sooner than I would have liked, as my own front wheel hits a patch of oil and I wrestle with the steering column. I think that it is fortune rather than skill that ensures that I do not end up in the same bloody pile as Dave.
Let me tell you! if you are to have an accident of any kind, then I am the last person that you want around you. I have not got the foggiest idea what to do, despite completing a first aid course in 1985. My plan of action is to get off my bike slowly and hope that somebody that actually knows what they are doing turns up at the scene. My plan in this type of situation always seems to work. By the time I have reached the scene, Dave is surrounded by a gaggle of people and somebody has taken the lead. I quietly observe his injuries, take note that he is conscious and then tend to his bike in an effort to divert my mind. I inform Dave that his chain has fallen off and detect irritation in his voice at my seemingly low appreciation of the severity of his condition. Surprisingly he does not seem to mind, when I ask him if I can take photographs of the crash. I think, by now he realises that I am to be of little use as a medic.
Dave is hoisted off the ground and walked to a waiting scooter, his face has turned a strange shade of grey/green and he is hobbling pretty badly. There are injuries to the whole right side of his body, a lump on the back of his head and nasty looking cut on his left elbow. I do however note that his lucky charm appears to no longer be hanging around his neck. He is a little cautious about riding on the back of a bike to the hospital but he has little choice. His scooter/ambulance drives him off and I am left in charge of gathering his goods. I am happy to see that all the village appears to have gathered together to assist me in this task. We soon have his bike upright and his possessions gathered. Rather amusingly as, we gather his stuff together another scooter, bearing 2 people comes over the crest of the hill from the opposite direction and loses control on the oil slick. Somebody else goes to help and ends up falling on his arse. It is like the key stone cops out there.
A rather tubby man, who is semi naked, grabs Dave's scooter and gestures that I follow him as he pushes it away. We end up at a repair shop, where the proprietor puts the chain back on the bike. Despite my protests he accepts no compensation.
I then follow the tubby guy, through the village to the hospital. To make things worse, the heavens have opened up, as those once threatening dark clouds, release their pressure, all over the village. I am myself semi naked (and tubby, as it happens), as I fight my scooter through the cascading rain, like a world war 1 pilot through the bullet filled skies. People line the sides of the road to watch. Word has obviously got around that the idiots, who raced through the village not 10 minutes earlier, have met a well deserved sticky end. They display a mixture of emotions, ranging from laughter, excitement and sympathy. One guy, I note is particularly excited and jumps from leg to leg punching the air and laughing.
By the time I reach the hospital, Dave is lying prostrate on a wooden bed surrounded by nursing staff. Think world war 1 in the trenches. Imagine the makeshift hospitals that they had there and you've got a pretty good picture of the hospital where Dave now lies. There are many patients in the hospital, who appear to have terrible illnesses. However, Dave is seen to right away and he is given a level of attention which is worthy of any hospital in the world. The lady dealing with him, I note is wearing a fake Gucci t-shirt. I have no idea why but this seems to stick out in my mind. It seems ludicrous that these people hardly have enough money to eat, yet they want to be seen in a labelled top, albeit fake.
Word gets around the hospital and people appear from everywhere in their pyjamas. They surround Dave's bed and peer in bewilderment. The fact that his body is ripped to shit does not mean anything to them. The fact that there are 2 foreigners in this rarely visited neck of the woods is far more intriguing. Dressed in their white robes, they kind if resemble zombies, their vacant stares add to this conjecture.
Outside the rain crashes against the corrugated iron roof of the hospital, adding more atmosphere to the whole experience (not as though it needs any). Dave, as you can imagine is stressed out and seems to be taking his anguish out on me for not retrieving his bag, which contains some pain killers and a change of clothes. The bike is still at the repair shop, a good 3 minutes down the road. The semi naked, tubby man ensures me that he will bring it up when he has finished. I give it a few minutes before going to get it. When I eventually walk out of the door, I stand in a puddle and go up to my knee in soft mud and water. As I fight my way out of this quicksand like substance, the tubby man appears with the bike and bag. However, by the time I have fished out Dave's pain killers, the nurse has stitched him Rambo style without any form of sedative.
In a further twist to the tale, a doctor appears and takes control of the situation. He informs Dave that this is his lucky day because he is a district doctor based in Thazi (23 km away) and is only in the village because there has been an outbreak of dengue fever in the area. My mind is awash with 3 thoughts, 1, At least Dave's lucky charm was good for something, 2. Dengue fever must be the reason for the zombies, overall sickly appearance, 3. Fuck, can you actually catch that shit? The doctor then disappears to finish his lunch, which we have apparently disturbed.
Dave decides that he wants to freshen up a bit, which is hardly surprising since his body is full of road dirt, his shirt is hanging on by a thread and his arse is hanging out of his shorts. I prepare him some fresh clothes and assist him to the door, which he exits and walks full on into the pouring rain. The nursing staff and hangers on, then watch as Dave stands under one of the corners of the building and allows the water to cascade down onto his naked flesh. Rather amusingly they point out the best plants which I can use to wipe him down. It's as though this is an everyday occurrence.
It takes around an hour for the doctor to reappear and by this time we have got our possessions ready for a sharp exit. We make a very loose arrangement with the nurse to look after the bikes and give her the number of the guys that we hired the bikes from. We have arranged to drop the bikes off at 3 pm at Bagan airport in 4 days time. A plan with more holes in it than Dave's bleeding torso, especially since they asked for no deposit, passport or credit card. The village that we now find ourselves in is a good 150 km from Bagan airport and I begin to wonder what the outcome of this little arrangement is going to be. Right now, the most impending task is to get Dave to Thazi hospital for an x-ray of his knee which is where most of the pain is currently focused.
The doctor drives us to his hospital in Thazi, along 23 km of road, which has more holes than tarmac. The doctor is a rather peculiar chap, who laughs at the end of any sentence, whether it is funny or tragically serious. You know the type, you could tell him that you mum's died of cancer , your kids on a life support machine and your wife's left you, only to be met by a torrent of laughter - oh stop you're killing me. I am not too sure how much he English he understands but I find him a rather endearing character with an infectious personality (I hope that is the only infectious thing he has).
One of the first things he says to us, is, "I saw you riding through the village", this is followed by silence before he says "you were driving very fast". Of course this is met by his own laughter, "hahahha".
If we thought Thazi hospital was going to be any better than the previous affair then we are sadly mistaken. Ok, it's certainly bigger and therefore has even more zombie like patients surrounding us upon our arrival. We pull up in the car park and I escort Dave into the reception area. Within seconds the reception area is also full of patients, who are curious to know who, what and where these 2 strange specimens have been picked up from. There is a look of genuine bewilderment on their faces, as they make a circle around us and whisper to each other. Not knowing what else to do, I wave at them. Some timidly wave back and others remain vacant, staring at me as though I have just arrived from Mars. All the while Dave is filling in papers and answering questions. I take note that there are several dogs walking around the hospital with no apparent owner. Nobody, seems to acknowledge their existence and this includes doctors.
Eventually, Dave is ready to be transferred to the x-ray department. Well, I say transferred, what I actually mean is that Dave has to struggle to get up and then stumble 100 metres to a rather dingy looking outbuilding. During the 100 metre stumble, he encounters uneven ground, pond like puddles, huge drops and a wayward pig. The pig wanders the hospital grounds at its leisure, in what appears to be a never ending quest for food.
There is no door as such on the x-ray room, a moth eaten green curtain is draped across the open door frame. I muse over the function of this curtain. Is it to prevent access or to protect against radiation. The curtain is parted in the middle and resembles a pair of giants trousers. Dave disappears into the room and I stick my head through the curtains with catlike curiosity. Given the surroundings I am not expecting anything fancy, nor am I expecting the torture chamber of which I am confronted. Many years ago, I visited the S21 torture camp in Phenom Penh. The X-ray room at Thazi hospital does not look too dissimilar. As I leave the room of my own free will, the nonchalent pig is attempting to make his way in. I clap my hands and chase him off.
Dave re-emerges from his gamma chamber, shaking his head in disbelief at what he has just witnessed. Apparently, when the radiologist pushed the button to take the skeletal snap, the contraption not only made a large electrical sizzling noise but the lights in the hospital dimmed. Whilst he has been in there, the police and immigration and have arrived and are waiting to question us both.
What I have failed to mention until this point, is that it is actually illegal to hire motor cycles in Burma. The guys that we rented them off, were out to make a few quid and rented us their private bikes. Like I said, we exchanged no details apart from a telephone number and a time to meet at Bagan airport. Before we set off, we were warned by the hotel owner in Mandalay that we would not be able to make it accross Burma on scooters without getting stopped by the police. He did however back down on his convictions when he saw that we were going to completely ignore him anyway. He then changed it to "we should be ok, as long as nothing happens". These words are now ringing in my ears "as long as nothing happens". As we walk to the office to be interviewed by the police, I look at Dave's broken body and think, "Oh fuck".
There are 3 officials in total, 1 policeman and 2 immigration officers as far as I tell. I am expecting the worst but my feelings of anguish are soon alleviated when they begin their line of questioning. Using very broken English and poor translations, they seem to want a rundown of our iteniary for the past week. Where we've stayed, places we've been, what we've seen etc. We could have spun them any old bollocks to be honest and got way with it but we tell them the truth. All the while, I am waiting for them to ask me for my International driving license, which I blatantly don't have. Fortunately they never ask. They do however take photocopies of our passports. From what I can gather, they are more concerned about the reputation of their country as an safe place to travel. In actual fact, it is Dave and I that are unsafe to travel, Burma has served us incredibly well. The whole time that we are being questioned by the officials, the zombies have encircled us. We later find out that many of them are dying of malaria. I guess I should be happy that we have kept them entertained in the final stages of their life. Their curiosity reaches its zenith when Dave gets an injection of pain killer in his buttocks. I never knew that dying people could laugh so hard. I half expect to see them drop, there and then.
The laughing doctor has picked up on Dave's previous horrific injury, which ironically he sustained in another motor cycle crash. I say "picked up" but he would have had to be blind not to. Dave has a gash the size of a shark bite out of his right leg. It turns out that the laughing doctor is a master of skin grafts and is particularly interested in Dave's skin graft. Dave informs me that the doctor wants to show Dave one of his recently skin grafted patients. When I see a very sickly patient, hobbling accross the hospital forecourt, I do not for one moment think that this is the patient in question. The guys on deaths door and laughing boy has got him to walk from his bed, so that he can show off his handy work to Dave, who by the way does not give a fuck right now. The doctor is obviously proud of his hospital and to be honest we both have a great deal of admiration for him because he prides himself on the fact that the hospital does not accept any payments. The patients are all as poor as it gets. By use of a translator, I have a conversation with an old lady, who wears her arm in a sling and a smile on her face. It turns out that the lady has fallen in the paddy fields whilst picking rice. I can not even begin to comprehend the life's that thses people lead but it brings a lump to my throat that their are people that care about them and provide free medical care. It's a pity the taxi driver that the doctor hails for us, is not blessed with the same feelings of benevolence. We are charged $25 to take us 10 km tp Mektilla(cheeky bastard). As we exit the hospital car park, the doctor beckons our cab to stop and when we wind the window down. He shouts "good luck David". As our cab exits the hospital car park, we can still hear him laughing.
The journey to Mektilla, where we know of a great hotel on a beautiful lake (not that we care right now), takes a lot longer than it should do. The road is terrible and there are no lights to illuminate the way. Poor Dave gets bounced from pillar to post, whilst I am feeling less than comfortable in the back of the pickup truck. We arrive about an hour later and head to the Honey Hotel, which is in fact fully booked. To be fair, Dave did ask me to check out whether it was going to be full or not but I convinced him that I have never been rejected from an Asian guest house yet. Fortunately is too stressed and sick to rub my nose in this fact.
We end up, at another hotel on the other end of town, which is vastly overpriced, totally run down and full of over friendly staff, who appear only to be this way because they want tips. Dave settles in the best he can and I go off with one of the over friendly, tip hunting vultures to fetch some Chinese food. There are many worries on our minds right now but one of the most pressing one is about the scooter owners. We purposefully did not give the police their telephone number, but we are concerned that the nurse in charge of the bikes, did. Dave and I have vowed to ring the guys in the morning to sort it out. To recap, they are in Mandalay, a city that we left over 4 days ago and have been travelling away from ever since. Their scooters are hauled up in the first village hospital car park where we abandoned them after Dave's involuntary gymnastic display. This village is literally in the middle of nowhere, at least 300 km from the street where we picked the scooters up. My mind is all consumed in this issue, as I drift asleep.
Just when you thought this story could not get any stranger, the following morning adds a new twist. Dave and I awake fairly early and head out of our door for breakfast. As we emerge from our room, we are confronted by a familiar face. It takes a few seconds to recognise this face as the person that rented us the bike. Unbelievably, the guy has travelled down through the night with his friend and his uncle, on several buses. The nurse has rejected their plea's for the return of their bikes and has made them get a written confirmation from Dave and I, that we are OK and will not pursue this further. From the village hospital where Dave crashed, they have retraced our steps to the town hospital, where we encountered pigs, zombies and torture devices. The laughing doctor has directed them from there to the Honey Hotel, where he believed us to be. From there the manager has directed them to the overpriced shit hole where we now reside. As we slept, this band of super sleuths have travelled through the night. It is now 7.30 am and their efforts have been rewarded. Of course I write them the confirmation letter and in turn they try to help us find a private taxi driver that is not going to rape our wallets. As it happens, these are harder to find than a traffic policeman that gives a fuck in Burma. In our efforts to find a driver with a conscience however I am rewarded by the sight of a chain gang of prisoners crossing the road with balls and chaina on their feet (and I thought that this shit only happened in the movies). Rather bizarrely they all turn, smile and wave when they see me. I am happy to brighten up their lives.
We eventually book 3 seats on the bus to Bagan, 2 for Dave and his injured body and 1 for me. The bus is full to capacity and it is easy to see that somebody has been ejected from their seat to make way for the crippled foreigner.
Dave claims that he will never ride a motor bike without a helmet again. I doubt this very much. However, I don't doubt his claims that he will never purchase another lucky charm.
The day begins with drama, is sandwiched with even more drama and ends in melodrama, worthy of any James Bond script. We are now in the beautiful Inle lake area, where we spent a dramatic, previous day in the middle of the lake, watching our supposedly experienced canoe captain, cowering from the rapturous cracks of thunder and almost blinding lightning strikes which threaten to bombard our vessel at a distance of approximately 100 metres. Even the usually unflappable Dangerous Dave is passing comment on how too close for comfort the strikes actually are. He exclaims that he has never seen lightning hit the water before. I assume it is nerves that drives our laughter, whilst in an seemingly unlaughable situation. That is, moored up to a post in the middle of an enormous lake, nature throwing all it as at us, with our captain, cowering in the back of the canoe, shielding himself with an umbrella. He assures us that, to his knowledge, only one person has ever died on the lake from a lightning strike. I am not convinced but it is the only consolation I have to offer my mind.
How we ever made it out of that lake alive is only for god to answer but here we are a day later, leisurely breakfasting before setting off on out scooter for a 200 km stretch of mountainous terrain. In retrospect, we were never going to do this in one day, as it happens this was not written in the script anyway. Exiting the breakfast hall we meet our canoe captain, who appears to have much larger testicles than the last time we saw him. He wears a smile upon his countenance which is as wide as his frowns of yesterday were long. The reason for his joyous behaviour, we are to find out is the fact that we are all alive to enjoy another breakfast. Of the twenty or so canoes that were on the lake the previous day, one had been hit by lightning with the loss of one and serious injury of 2 others. It seems that our concerns were not unfounded after all.
We depart Inle Lake, glad to be alive and full of excitement for our forthcoming trip to Bagan. With far too much confidence, we crack on at a pace which is certainly far faster than the roads or our brakes should allow. Before we even leave the immediate area of the lake, I have been in a heart murmuring slide of the back wheel, which miraculously terminates before I slam into a wall. Dangerous Dave and I race through the mountains between Inle Lake and Kalauw, with pleasure pumping through our veins, as we pass everything on the road, including, cars, trucks, buffalo and cart, tractors, motorcycles and check points (which we are supposedly supposed to stop at). We reach our lunchtime destination of Kalauw in time for brunch. We have stayed here for 2 days already and therefore know the exact restaurant that we are heading for. The 7 sisters restaurant, run by -wait for it- the ancestors of 7 sisters. Great food, slow service but lovely people. The slow service is not too important because we have made up enough time to allow for a drawn out brunch.
Throughout the journey, Dave has decided that his helmet is not a necessity and in turn I have stupidly elected to discard of my own helmet. As we leave the 7 sisters restaurant, heartily foddered and watered, I tie my helmet to the back of my bike (much to the disdain of the 7 sisters ancestors) and we accelerate off into the distance with the staff waving us goodbye. Little do they know that I am to be back there within 15 minutes and then again within 30 minutes.
Dave sets the pace and I follow, not too far behind, shooting through the checkpoint on the edge of the village as we have become accustomed. We have been warned, that in this country of military junta, we will be stopped, cross examined and told to turn back. In reality, the guys at the checkpoint wave to us as we fly by, with no helmets and exceeding the speed limit by some considerable margin. What follows is a dangerous set of hairpin bends, which continue for around 10 km, as we make our way down the mountain. Rapidly descending the mountain, I briefly take note of the flower seller as she waves her wares at me. Our paths are to cross again in the very near future.
As often happens, my intuition tells me that something is not quite right. I turn around to discover that I have lost my helmet, somewhere on the mountain. Realising that Dave is too far ahead of me, I turn around and ride back up the mountain in search of my redundant head gear. Once again I ride past the flower seller, who is frantically waving her flowers at me. I casually think to myself, "It's a helmet I need love, not your flowers". It does not occur to me that she may have actually found my helmet. By now, Dave has managed to realise that I am no longer in his shadow and has met me on the mountain. I leave him searching for my helmet as I head back into the village. Before I know it, I am back at the 7 sisters and have been given a new helmet. With much determination I get the family to accept $10 from me and tell them that if I find my helmet, I will be back (I don't think for one minute that this will be a reality).
Once again I begin my descent of the mountain, taking a second to wave at the security check point guards, who are by now, almost too inanimate to lift their arms. In the distance, I see that Dave is standing next to the flower seller in a bus shelter type structure. I also notice that the flower seller is holding my helmet. She speaks no English but it is not hard to deduce that she has recovered my helmet and now wishes to sell me a flower (which turn out to be lucky charms). I delve in my wallet and give the lady $2. Dave also buys a flower which he wears around his neck. He informs me that this is the first lucky charm that he has ever bought. In hindsight of what is to come, I assume that this is going to be his last. This village is beginning to feel like the village of the damned. Will I ever escape? Off I go, back up to the 7 sisters restaurant to trade my helmet back in for $10. This time, the security post guards don't even bother to look.
Returning to the bus shelter, I give the flower seller the $10. The look on her face is enough for me to understand that she has never even seen a $10 note before. Upon further investigation, I notice a semi naked baby in the shelter. Dave later tells me that, through a process of gesticulations he understands this to be her child and the bus shelter to be her home. I leave, feeling happy to have given the lady the money but confused about global inequalities.
After, far too many false starts, Dangerous Dave and I finally set off, destination Bagan. Typically Dave sets the pace and I follow in relatively close pursuit. The scenery on this section of the trip is breathtaking, beautiful mountain valleys of lush greenness, farmers tending to their paddy fields, buffalo grazing by the roadside and people happily waving to us, oblivious to the poverty they exist in. Dave and I are really motoring by now and even running out of fuel does not break our spirit. I merely coast down the mountainside until I come across a roadside stall with bottles of fuel. These are everywhere in Burma and make life very convenient. What is slightly worrying however, is the fact that we are blatantly heading into storm. With each KM we cover, the sky turns a darker shade of grey.
I guess that a wiser man would say that the odds of finishing this trip in one piece are not in our favour. We are on bikes that have slightly defective braking mechanisms, going far too fast, down hairpin mountain bends, on roads that are so pot holed they can barely be defined as such. There are so many obstacles, such as buffalo, people, trucks and tractors, that at times it seems like you are playing a computer game. This is especially pertinent because I am listening to the Prodigy on my headphones, at full blast -thus setting my mood. Add to this that we are donned only in a pair of shorts with our crash helmets tied to the back of our bikes. Some may call it stupid, some may call it irresponsible, others reckless; I call it fun and a real sense of living.
Village after village passes us by and we are received by the same response at each one. Those lazing by the roadside, leap from their vegetative state to wave at us, roadside construction workers (usually ladies), leave their posts to frantically gesticulate, soldiers, police, farmers and just about any other profession you can think of, cast us a smile, as we race on by. This is life turned up to 11, I feel as alive as a man can get. The dark clouds looming on the horizon, it could be argued, are an indication of what is about to occur.
The roads have been particularly bad, as we approach our impromptu end. Just before the final village of our trip, we make one last stop to retrieve the water bottle which has flown out of Dave's basket. Examining Dave's bike, we think that he has cracked the frame in half. Fortunately it turns out that the plastic has come slightly loose. It would have come as no surprise if the frame was cracked in half, I must confess. With the damage report carried out we head off again, at lightning pace.
As we enter the final village, Dave, thankfully is in the lead by around 5 seconds. We cast our customary waves at the village folks and weave our way through the settlement. I see Dave disappear over the crest of a hill, although I am unaware that this will be the last time I will see him and his machine connected. As I race over the same hillside, I am confronted with a scene of carnage with Dave's bike spinning out of control and his body performing involuntary gymnastic moves. There are several trucks creating obstacles on the road and I am assuming these are the cause of Dave's spill. The cause of Dave's spill is revealed to me sooner than I would have liked, as my own front wheel hits a patch of oil and I wrestle with the steering column. I think that it is fortune rather than skill that ensures that I do not end up in the same bloody pile as Dave.
Let me tell you! if you are to have an accident of any kind, then I am the last person that you want around you. I have not got the foggiest idea what to do, despite completing a first aid course in 1985. My plan of action is to get off my bike slowly and hope that somebody that actually knows what they are doing turns up at the scene. My plan in this type of situation always seems to work. By the time I have reached the scene, Dave is surrounded by a gaggle of people and somebody has taken the lead. I quietly observe his injuries, take note that he is conscious and then tend to his bike in an effort to divert my mind. I inform Dave that his chain has fallen off and detect irritation in his voice at my seemingly low appreciation of the severity of his condition. Surprisingly he does not seem to mind, when I ask him if I can take photographs of the crash. I think, by now he realises that I am to be of little use as a medic.
Dave is hoisted off the ground and walked to a waiting scooter, his face has turned a strange shade of grey/green and he is hobbling pretty badly. There are injuries to the whole right side of his body, a lump on the back of his head and nasty looking cut on his left elbow. I do however note that his lucky charm appears to no longer be hanging around his neck. He is a little cautious about riding on the back of a bike to the hospital but he has little choice. His scooter/ambulance drives him off and I am left in charge of gathering his goods. I am happy to see that all the village appears to have gathered together to assist me in this task. We soon have his bike upright and his possessions gathered. Rather amusingly as, we gather his stuff together another scooter, bearing 2 people comes over the crest of the hill from the opposite direction and loses control on the oil slick. Somebody else goes to help and ends up falling on his arse. It is like the key stone cops out there.
A rather tubby man, who is semi naked, grabs Dave's scooter and gestures that I follow him as he pushes it away. We end up at a repair shop, where the proprietor puts the chain back on the bike. Despite my protests he accepts no compensation.
I then follow the tubby guy, through the village to the hospital. To make things worse, the heavens have opened up, as those once threatening dark clouds, release their pressure, all over the village. I am myself semi naked (and tubby, as it happens), as I fight my scooter through the cascading rain, like a world war 1 pilot through the bullet filled skies. People line the sides of the road to watch. Word has obviously got around that the idiots, who raced through the village not 10 minutes earlier, have met a well deserved sticky end. They display a mixture of emotions, ranging from laughter, excitement and sympathy. One guy, I note is particularly excited and jumps from leg to leg punching the air and laughing.
By the time I reach the hospital, Dave is lying prostrate on a wooden bed surrounded by nursing staff. Think world war 1 in the trenches. Imagine the makeshift hospitals that they had there and you've got a pretty good picture of the hospital where Dave now lies. There are many patients in the hospital, who appear to have terrible illnesses. However, Dave is seen to right away and he is given a level of attention which is worthy of any hospital in the world. The lady dealing with him, I note is wearing a fake Gucci t-shirt. I have no idea why but this seems to stick out in my mind. It seems ludicrous that these people hardly have enough money to eat, yet they want to be seen in a labelled top, albeit fake.
Word gets around the hospital and people appear from everywhere in their pyjamas. They surround Dave's bed and peer in bewilderment. The fact that his body is ripped to shit does not mean anything to them. The fact that there are 2 foreigners in this rarely visited neck of the woods is far more intriguing. Dressed in their white robes, they kind if resemble zombies, their vacant stares add to this conjecture.
Outside the rain crashes against the corrugated iron roof of the hospital, adding more atmosphere to the whole experience (not as though it needs any). Dave, as you can imagine is stressed out and seems to be taking his anguish out on me for not retrieving his bag, which contains some pain killers and a change of clothes. The bike is still at the repair shop, a good 3 minutes down the road. The semi naked, tubby man ensures me that he will bring it up when he has finished. I give it a few minutes before going to get it. When I eventually walk out of the door, I stand in a puddle and go up to my knee in soft mud and water. As I fight my way out of this quicksand like substance, the tubby man appears with the bike and bag. However, by the time I have fished out Dave's pain killers, the nurse has stitched him Rambo style without any form of sedative.
In a further twist to the tale, a doctor appears and takes control of the situation. He informs Dave that this is his lucky day because he is a district doctor based in Thazi (23 km away) and is only in the village because there has been an outbreak of dengue fever in the area. My mind is awash with 3 thoughts, 1, At least Dave's lucky charm was good for something, 2. Dengue fever must be the reason for the zombies, overall sickly appearance, 3. Fuck, can you actually catch that shit? The doctor then disappears to finish his lunch, which we have apparently disturbed.
Dave decides that he wants to freshen up a bit, which is hardly surprising since his body is full of road dirt, his shirt is hanging on by a thread and his arse is hanging out of his shorts. I prepare him some fresh clothes and assist him to the door, which he exits and walks full on into the pouring rain. The nursing staff and hangers on, then watch as Dave stands under one of the corners of the building and allows the water to cascade down onto his naked flesh. Rather amusingly they point out the best plants which I can use to wipe him down. It's as though this is an everyday occurrence.
It takes around an hour for the doctor to reappear and by this time we have got our possessions ready for a sharp exit. We make a very loose arrangement with the nurse to look after the bikes and give her the number of the guys that we hired the bikes from. We have arranged to drop the bikes off at 3 pm at Bagan airport in 4 days time. A plan with more holes in it than Dave's bleeding torso, especially since they asked for no deposit, passport or credit card. The village that we now find ourselves in is a good 150 km from Bagan airport and I begin to wonder what the outcome of this little arrangement is going to be. Right now, the most impending task is to get Dave to Thazi hospital for an x-ray of his knee which is where most of the pain is currently focused.
The doctor drives us to his hospital in Thazi, along 23 km of road, which has more holes than tarmac. The doctor is a rather peculiar chap, who laughs at the end of any sentence, whether it is funny or tragically serious. You know the type, you could tell him that you mum's died of cancer , your kids on a life support machine and your wife's left you, only to be met by a torrent of laughter - oh stop you're killing me. I am not too sure how much he English he understands but I find him a rather endearing character with an infectious personality (I hope that is the only infectious thing he has).
One of the first things he says to us, is, "I saw you riding through the village", this is followed by silence before he says "you were driving very fast". Of course this is met by his own laughter, "hahahha".
If we thought Thazi hospital was going to be any better than the previous affair then we are sadly mistaken. Ok, it's certainly bigger and therefore has even more zombie like patients surrounding us upon our arrival. We pull up in the car park and I escort Dave into the reception area. Within seconds the reception area is also full of patients, who are curious to know who, what and where these 2 strange specimens have been picked up from. There is a look of genuine bewilderment on their faces, as they make a circle around us and whisper to each other. Not knowing what else to do, I wave at them. Some timidly wave back and others remain vacant, staring at me as though I have just arrived from Mars. All the while Dave is filling in papers and answering questions. I take note that there are several dogs walking around the hospital with no apparent owner. Nobody, seems to acknowledge their existence and this includes doctors.
Eventually, Dave is ready to be transferred to the x-ray department. Well, I say transferred, what I actually mean is that Dave has to struggle to get up and then stumble 100 metres to a rather dingy looking outbuilding. During the 100 metre stumble, he encounters uneven ground, pond like puddles, huge drops and a wayward pig. The pig wanders the hospital grounds at its leisure, in what appears to be a never ending quest for food.
There is no door as such on the x-ray room, a moth eaten green curtain is draped across the open door frame. I muse over the function of this curtain. Is it to prevent access or to protect against radiation. The curtain is parted in the middle and resembles a pair of giants trousers. Dave disappears into the room and I stick my head through the curtains with catlike curiosity. Given the surroundings I am not expecting anything fancy, nor am I expecting the torture chamber of which I am confronted. Many years ago, I visited the S21 torture camp in Phenom Penh. The X-ray room at Thazi hospital does not look too dissimilar. As I leave the room of my own free will, the nonchalent pig is attempting to make his way in. I clap my hands and chase him off.
Dave re-emerges from his gamma chamber, shaking his head in disbelief at what he has just witnessed. Apparently, when the radiologist pushed the button to take the skeletal snap, the contraption not only made a large electrical sizzling noise but the lights in the hospital dimmed. Whilst he has been in there, the police and immigration and have arrived and are waiting to question us both.
What I have failed to mention until this point, is that it is actually illegal to hire motor cycles in Burma. The guys that we rented them off, were out to make a few quid and rented us their private bikes. Like I said, we exchanged no details apart from a telephone number and a time to meet at Bagan airport. Before we set off, we were warned by the hotel owner in Mandalay that we would not be able to make it accross Burma on scooters without getting stopped by the police. He did however back down on his convictions when he saw that we were going to completely ignore him anyway. He then changed it to "we should be ok, as long as nothing happens". These words are now ringing in my ears "as long as nothing happens". As we walk to the office to be interviewed by the police, I look at Dave's broken body and think, "Oh fuck".
There are 3 officials in total, 1 policeman and 2 immigration officers as far as I tell. I am expecting the worst but my feelings of anguish are soon alleviated when they begin their line of questioning. Using very broken English and poor translations, they seem to want a rundown of our iteniary for the past week. Where we've stayed, places we've been, what we've seen etc. We could have spun them any old bollocks to be honest and got way with it but we tell them the truth. All the while, I am waiting for them to ask me for my International driving license, which I blatantly don't have. Fortunately they never ask. They do however take photocopies of our passports. From what I can gather, they are more concerned about the reputation of their country as an safe place to travel. In actual fact, it is Dave and I that are unsafe to travel, Burma has served us incredibly well. The whole time that we are being questioned by the officials, the zombies have encircled us. We later find out that many of them are dying of malaria. I guess I should be happy that we have kept them entertained in the final stages of their life. Their curiosity reaches its zenith when Dave gets an injection of pain killer in his buttocks. I never knew that dying people could laugh so hard. I half expect to see them drop, there and then.
The laughing doctor has picked up on Dave's previous horrific injury, which ironically he sustained in another motor cycle crash. I say "picked up" but he would have had to be blind not to. Dave has a gash the size of a shark bite out of his right leg. It turns out that the laughing doctor is a master of skin grafts and is particularly interested in Dave's skin graft. Dave informs me that the doctor wants to show Dave one of his recently skin grafted patients. When I see a very sickly patient, hobbling accross the hospital forecourt, I do not for one moment think that this is the patient in question. The guys on deaths door and laughing boy has got him to walk from his bed, so that he can show off his handy work to Dave, who by the way does not give a fuck right now. The doctor is obviously proud of his hospital and to be honest we both have a great deal of admiration for him because he prides himself on the fact that the hospital does not accept any payments. The patients are all as poor as it gets. By use of a translator, I have a conversation with an old lady, who wears her arm in a sling and a smile on her face. It turns out that the lady has fallen in the paddy fields whilst picking rice. I can not even begin to comprehend the life's that thses people lead but it brings a lump to my throat that their are people that care about them and provide free medical care. It's a pity the taxi driver that the doctor hails for us, is not blessed with the same feelings of benevolence. We are charged $25 to take us 10 km tp Mektilla(cheeky bastard). As we exit the hospital car park, the doctor beckons our cab to stop and when we wind the window down. He shouts "good luck David". As our cab exits the hospital car park, we can still hear him laughing.
The journey to Mektilla, where we know of a great hotel on a beautiful lake (not that we care right now), takes a lot longer than it should do. The road is terrible and there are no lights to illuminate the way. Poor Dave gets bounced from pillar to post, whilst I am feeling less than comfortable in the back of the pickup truck. We arrive about an hour later and head to the Honey Hotel, which is in fact fully booked. To be fair, Dave did ask me to check out whether it was going to be full or not but I convinced him that I have never been rejected from an Asian guest house yet. Fortunately is too stressed and sick to rub my nose in this fact.
We end up, at another hotel on the other end of town, which is vastly overpriced, totally run down and full of over friendly staff, who appear only to be this way because they want tips. Dave settles in the best he can and I go off with one of the over friendly, tip hunting vultures to fetch some Chinese food. There are many worries on our minds right now but one of the most pressing one is about the scooter owners. We purposefully did not give the police their telephone number, but we are concerned that the nurse in charge of the bikes, did. Dave and I have vowed to ring the guys in the morning to sort it out. To recap, they are in Mandalay, a city that we left over 4 days ago and have been travelling away from ever since. Their scooters are hauled up in the first village hospital car park where we abandoned them after Dave's involuntary gymnastic display. This village is literally in the middle of nowhere, at least 300 km from the street where we picked the scooters up. My mind is all consumed in this issue, as I drift asleep.
Just when you thought this story could not get any stranger, the following morning adds a new twist. Dave and I awake fairly early and head out of our door for breakfast. As we emerge from our room, we are confronted by a familiar face. It takes a few seconds to recognise this face as the person that rented us the bike. Unbelievably, the guy has travelled down through the night with his friend and his uncle, on several buses. The nurse has rejected their plea's for the return of their bikes and has made them get a written confirmation from Dave and I, that we are OK and will not pursue this further. From the village hospital where Dave crashed, they have retraced our steps to the town hospital, where we encountered pigs, zombies and torture devices. The laughing doctor has directed them from there to the Honey Hotel, where he believed us to be. From there the manager has directed them to the overpriced shit hole where we now reside. As we slept, this band of super sleuths have travelled through the night. It is now 7.30 am and their efforts have been rewarded. Of course I write them the confirmation letter and in turn they try to help us find a private taxi driver that is not going to rape our wallets. As it happens, these are harder to find than a traffic policeman that gives a fuck in Burma. In our efforts to find a driver with a conscience however I am rewarded by the sight of a chain gang of prisoners crossing the road with balls and chaina on their feet (and I thought that this shit only happened in the movies). Rather bizarrely they all turn, smile and wave when they see me. I am happy to brighten up their lives.
We eventually book 3 seats on the bus to Bagan, 2 for Dave and his injured body and 1 for me. The bus is full to capacity and it is easy to see that somebody has been ejected from their seat to make way for the crippled foreigner.
Dave claims that he will never ride a motor bike without a helmet again. I doubt this very much. However, I don't doubt his claims that he will never purchase another lucky charm.
Thursday, 2 September 2010
Drunken driving - a very short story
I've met up with my my mate Dangerous Dave at a pub in Manchester. I'm driving so decline on the beers. However we stay longer than we are meant to and my will power decreases by the round. I eventually have a beer and then another and another etc. Maybe surprisingly to some, this type of behaviour is a rarity in my life. I usually have the resolve to prevent it.
We decide to go back to Bury where Dave's mum lives and I am feeling majorly paranoid driving home stinking of alcohol. I'm on edge and therefore making more errors than usual. Minor errors like setting the windscreen wipers off instead of indicating and stopping at green traffic lights, nothing too extreme. Paranoia starts to get the better of me and I am convinced that I am going to get stopped by the police. As the paranoia increases my driving gets worse, until eventually I am a bundle of nerves and can hardly remember how to drive at all. I'm thinking too much about my every move and we all know the problems over thinking can cause. It's like when you're on a run on the pool table and you decide to think about a shot, you invariably mess the shot up.
I'm feeling so nervous that I make a fatal mistake and decide to take the back roads through Cheatham Hill. My reasoning is that I am less likely to get stopped because there will be less police. I give little regard to the the fact that I don't know the back roads of Cheatham Hill.
Ten minutes later and I have driven more in reverse than forward gear, as I keep entering cul-der-sac's. I am more than a little agitated by now and wishing myself back to Dave's mums. I look in my mirror, see a police car right up my rear end and I think "fuck it, the games up". The police car overtakes me and as I expect he pulls up in front of me. I pull my own vehicle up behind him and get out of the car. The police man driving the car gets out of his vehicle and we walk towards each other. My legs are wobbly and I'm fully expecting a driving ban. I estimate that 20 yards separates us at the start of our reverse duel. We meet at the 10 yard mark and I freeze in terror and await my fate. The police man walks straight past me and enters the newsagents a few feet to my left. I'm stood on the pavement, quite unable to assimilate what has just happened. It takes Dave's frantic gesticulations to penetrate my shock bubble and get me back into the car.
I drive back to Dave's mums with perfect control and coordination.
We decide to go back to Bury where Dave's mum lives and I am feeling majorly paranoid driving home stinking of alcohol. I'm on edge and therefore making more errors than usual. Minor errors like setting the windscreen wipers off instead of indicating and stopping at green traffic lights, nothing too extreme. Paranoia starts to get the better of me and I am convinced that I am going to get stopped by the police. As the paranoia increases my driving gets worse, until eventually I am a bundle of nerves and can hardly remember how to drive at all. I'm thinking too much about my every move and we all know the problems over thinking can cause. It's like when you're on a run on the pool table and you decide to think about a shot, you invariably mess the shot up.
I'm feeling so nervous that I make a fatal mistake and decide to take the back roads through Cheatham Hill. My reasoning is that I am less likely to get stopped because there will be less police. I give little regard to the the fact that I don't know the back roads of Cheatham Hill.
Ten minutes later and I have driven more in reverse than forward gear, as I keep entering cul-der-sac's. I am more than a little agitated by now and wishing myself back to Dave's mums. I look in my mirror, see a police car right up my rear end and I think "fuck it, the games up". The police car overtakes me and as I expect he pulls up in front of me. I pull my own vehicle up behind him and get out of the car. The police man driving the car gets out of his vehicle and we walk towards each other. My legs are wobbly and I'm fully expecting a driving ban. I estimate that 20 yards separates us at the start of our reverse duel. We meet at the 10 yard mark and I freeze in terror and await my fate. The police man walks straight past me and enters the newsagents a few feet to my left. I'm stood on the pavement, quite unable to assimilate what has just happened. It takes Dave's frantic gesticulations to penetrate my shock bubble and get me back into the car.
I drive back to Dave's mums with perfect control and coordination.
The 6 minute warning
It's coming towards the end of summer camp and the excitement of being there is lessening by the day. It's around the middle of August and the weather is unbelievably hot. The kids are wearying of the camp, thus making our job harder. They have one special day when the kids parents turn up to relieve their guilt of sending their kids off to a boot camp for the whole summer. This is a spectacle to behold, with parents turning up in a whole host of flash cars, wearing very snazzy outfits and bearing tremendous gifts.
Al, the crazy chef is particularly stressed during this period, as he tries to impress the kids parents with his culinary delights. The kitchen hands are given the opportunity to show off their artistic sides in a mini competition to create the most beautiful fruit platter. Al, returns after 30 minutes of setting the task, only to find that I have balanced 2 cherries on top of 2 half melons in a breast like formation, with a triangular chunk of pineapple around 20 cm below. He looks at me, shakes his head and sends me off to the bug juice room to keep out of the way.
There have been rumours throughout the summer of a 6 minute warning. That is, if you do anything which is deemed to conflict with the camp ethos, you will get 6 minutes to vacate the premises. This is all fine and dandy, except that you will also lose your return airfare, which will be taken from the pitiful wages, which are being withheld until the end of the summer. Al, uses this 6 minute warning as a threat throughout the whole summer, to further manipulate the kitchen staff. He informs us of previous years victims of the 6 minute warning, including one year when the whole kitchen staff were apparently dismissed in one foul swoop. I have my doubts about whether the 6MW really exists or is just a tool to keep the Crane Lake staff under control (I liken this to rumours of god's existence). However, as the camp comes to the final few weeks, people begin to mysteriously disappear in a very short space of time. Like a camp counsellor who allegedly had sexual liaisons with a 13 yr old girl, who was staying on the camp.
One evening, a bunch of us decide to stride further afield to pursue our drinking exploits. For this purpose we are allowed to borrow the camp station wagon which we cram full of people. The station wagon is so full that we take a jeep as well. I elect to ride in the open back, exposed to the great outdoors and the beautiful Massachusetts night sky. I have travelled a lot in my life but I can safely say that I have never experienced night skies as beautiful as the ones that I saw during the summer of 1992. The stars were absolutely crammed into the sky, an astronomers wet dream of constellations.
I am lying in the back of the jeep on my own, completely absorbed in my thoughts and lost in the stars. Around me, the stillness of the Massachusetts night is permeated by the crazy sound of bull frogs, cicadas and other such creatures (I will elaborate on this later). It's one of those travel moments. I often do a trick where I take a conscious mental snapshot of a particular moment in time, which I can recall at any time with perfect clarity. This memory has just joined my mental slide show.
We arrive at our destination, which I think is somewhere in the Springfield region although my memory fails me on this. Anyway, our desired spot is a pub/bar on the outskirts of somewhere and it is in the rear car park of this bar that I alight the vehicle.
The evening is going good and the beer is flowing well. As per usual, I am quickly drunk and head off on one of many toilet stops. Upon my return I notice that somebody has left the storeroom door open, I enter the room and proceed to fill my pockets with bottles of beer. I sneak these back into the main bar and distribute them amongst my mates. I am to return to the storeroom for 5 sorties before I am suspected of my criminal acts and ejected from the premises.
It's around 15 minutes later and I am waiting outside the building for my friends to emerge. I hear the unmistakable sound of a fracas in the bar foyer and go to investigate. My friend Andy emerges through the front door of the bar in a very animated state. Behind him are the 2 Americans that work in the kitchen, Mike and DJ. Mike, happens to be Crazy Al's nephew and DJ is his best mate. Although the 2 boys are only 17, they are enormous and not to be messed with. DJ is actually the guy that drank the bug juice contaminated with my urine and consequently battered me with a chair. Never quite content with the punishment he administered he is looking for an excuse to have another go. In approximately 5 minutes I am going to afford him that opportunity.
Andy, is from Manchester, well Wythenshawe to be more precise. Wythenshawe, for those of you that have not heard of it's reputation, has been dubbed the largest council estate in Europe. It was originally created as a garden city in the 1930's but fast became an overspill city for the slums and squalor of Manchester. During the 1960's and 1970's, Wythenshawe developed it's reputation as as very bad place to live and a place to stay away from. So, as you can imagine, Andy is quite rough and ready and fancies himself as a bit of a hard man. Right now he is like raging bull, ripping off his shirt in a very aggressive manner and saying "Come on you American faggots, let's fucking have it Manchester style". Alarm bells are starting to ring in my head, of my own possible involvement in this dispute. As a none fighting person, I do not relish the possibilities of this challenge, even in my drunken state. As it turns out, alarm bells are not going to be the only thing that will be ringing in my head.
The argument intensifies and the 2 Americans start pushing Andy backwards towards a small playing field. As he flies backwards he notices me and shouts "Are you with me on this Andy kid"? I'm thinking "Like fuck, I'm with you on this", but what actually comes out of my mouth is "Too fucking right, lets kick some American arse".
They're on the playing field now and the Americans are circling their prey. Andy is still intent on the fact that he is going to have them both, but as far as I can see, he is about to get a proper pummeling. Andy throws the first punch which connects with Mike's head but all this does is infuriate him and provokes the counter attack. This happens quickly, Mike returns the punch which also connects with a sickening crack. DJ then grabs Andy from behind and bear hugs him up in the air. Mike lands a few punches whilst Andy is in the air and I am thinking "they've done this before, it's almost choreographed". My thoughts are cut short, as DJ drops Andy to the ground with a knee in the back. He falls to the floor in agony and gets repeatedly kicked in the head. This is my queue, I run in with arms flailing like a windmill, with no particular, accuracy, power, speed or conviction. I am halfway between the pair of them when it hits me "Thwaacckkkk". DJ, has right hooked me right in the temple and it feels like I have just run head first into a brick wall. I thought that seeing stars was something that only happened in cartoons, but right now I am seeing large cartoon stars, as I lie on my back with my body exposed to any further attack. DJ, pounces on me whilst Mike pounces on Andy. He says, "Are you giving up, you English pussy"?, to which I reply "Yes, get off me, my heads killing". Andy meanwhile is still hurling abuse, even though he is in no position to do so. In my mind I am urging him to stop and he eventually concedes. DJ lowers down on top of me with all his weight and says, "I ought to fucking finish you off right now, for pissing in the bug juice". With those words said, they both head off towards the pub, whilst Andy and I writhe around in pain.
Andy, is up on his feet, blood pouring from his head wounds. He is fuming and goes tearing off in the direction of the pub. I am unable to move and in retrospect, concussed. Besides my injuries, I have had my t-shirt ripped off my back and a gold chain given to me as a gift from my ex, snapped from around my neck. My head is literally throbbing, ringing and full of nothing but pain. Once again I hear an altercation in the distance and I think, "hold on hear we go". I drag myself up, just in time to see Andy racing after the camp station wagon, wielding some kind of implement. The station wagon suddenly stops, allowing Andy the chance to bring his implement crashing down at least 4 times on the vehicle windows, which break with a sickening smash of glass. The station wagon then accelerates off into the distance whilst Andy hurls abuse at it's passengers.
Thirty minutes later and Andy and I are heading off into the Massachusetts countryside, our bodies battered and our minds in other places. We have no idea where we are going or how far it is to Crane Lake camp. All we know is that it was a 30 minute drive to get to the bar and it is now 1.30am. It is pretty clear that Andy is going to get the 6 minute warning but I am hoping that if I can make it back on time, I can salvage my arse. This is when it all starts to get quite humorous.
We are staggering along like 2 war victims and all we can hear are absolutely crazy sounds coming from everywhere. We can pinpoint the bull frogs "whhoooaahhhhhoooaahh", and the cicada's "shhhiiiiiiiiiiiiii" but the night is literally alive with noises and some of them are too ridiculous for words. Besides that, the night is illuminated by stars and even more peculiarly, the bushes are alight with the flashes of fire flies. If you have never seen a fire fly, you are missing a treat. These guys are amazing with their amazing lamp like qualities which they use to attract mates or prey. The first time I saw them was in Israel when one mysteriously appeared in my kibbutz room , sparking a ghost hunt. In Massachusetts the bushes are full of them and it appears as if the bush is flashing on and off, as if you have your Christmas lights set on an annoying setting.
We have walked some distance by now and despite the pain and thoughts of expulsion from the camp, Andy and I are enjoying the banter. We are in fits of laughter brought about by these ridiculous noises that surround and generally enjoying the night walk. However, I eventually decide that I can't walk much further because I am so tired and I become desperate for sleep, this is probably further exacerbated by the concussion that I have sustained. We decide that we will try and get our head down for some rest somewhere, when as if by magic we spot an erected tent in someones massive back garden.
With any stealth that is humanly possible for men in our condition, we run across the garden and unzip the tent. Once inside we make ourselves as comfortable as possible and begin to relax. By now I have fully conditioned my mind to the fact I am going to suffer the 6 minute warning and financial consequences but "fuckit", it's all part of life's rich tapestry. I'm here now and at least I will be able to rest.
Andy and I, are chatting in whispered voices when all of a sudden the tent is illuminated by a powerful flashlight and a booming voice shouts "Get the fuck out of my tent guys, I know you're fucking in there, so I'll give you a count of 10 to get out of my fucking tent before I wrestle you out of my fucking tent". Andy and I look at each other and try to stifle our nervous laughter before getting up and exiting the tent. Once outside the guy pushes us to the ground and says "what the fuck are you doing in my tent". Where do we begin such a tale?
Ten minutes later and a tale seriously biased in our favour has been told. The guy, who turns out to be a professional wrestler, has taken pity on us and is seeing to Andy's wounds in the kitchen. We are given glasses of fruit juice and even more importantly we are offered a lift back to Crane Lake Camp, which we very willingly accept. The wrestler, drives and gives us advice all the way back to camp. Apparently, we are very lucky to have got into the right tent and if we would have been Americans we would have more than likely have been driven straight to the police station. With his piece said, he deposits outside the gates of the camp and bids us farewell. It's around 4 am by now and I have to be up at 7 to serve the kids breakfast. I lie in my bed staring at Harry the Hood, my head throbbing against the pillow.
I wake up and have come face to face with my assailants. They actually seem ok with me but take great pleasure in announcing that Andy will be thrown off camp. Right on queue, we hear him shouting outside and go to investigate. Ed, the camp director and one his beef cake hench men are escorting Andy off the premises. Andy turns to us with his his rucksack on his back, a large smile, stretched across his contorted face and in his unmistakable Manchester accent says "fuck em, they pay fuck all anyway". With this he exits the gates and I don't see him again until a meeting years later at his council house in Wythenshawe.
My headache takes a week to go away, the memory of drinking my urine will remain with DJ forever.
Al, the crazy chef is particularly stressed during this period, as he tries to impress the kids parents with his culinary delights. The kitchen hands are given the opportunity to show off their artistic sides in a mini competition to create the most beautiful fruit platter. Al, returns after 30 minutes of setting the task, only to find that I have balanced 2 cherries on top of 2 half melons in a breast like formation, with a triangular chunk of pineapple around 20 cm below. He looks at me, shakes his head and sends me off to the bug juice room to keep out of the way.
There have been rumours throughout the summer of a 6 minute warning. That is, if you do anything which is deemed to conflict with the camp ethos, you will get 6 minutes to vacate the premises. This is all fine and dandy, except that you will also lose your return airfare, which will be taken from the pitiful wages, which are being withheld until the end of the summer. Al, uses this 6 minute warning as a threat throughout the whole summer, to further manipulate the kitchen staff. He informs us of previous years victims of the 6 minute warning, including one year when the whole kitchen staff were apparently dismissed in one foul swoop. I have my doubts about whether the 6MW really exists or is just a tool to keep the Crane Lake staff under control (I liken this to rumours of god's existence). However, as the camp comes to the final few weeks, people begin to mysteriously disappear in a very short space of time. Like a camp counsellor who allegedly had sexual liaisons with a 13 yr old girl, who was staying on the camp.
One evening, a bunch of us decide to stride further afield to pursue our drinking exploits. For this purpose we are allowed to borrow the camp station wagon which we cram full of people. The station wagon is so full that we take a jeep as well. I elect to ride in the open back, exposed to the great outdoors and the beautiful Massachusetts night sky. I have travelled a lot in my life but I can safely say that I have never experienced night skies as beautiful as the ones that I saw during the summer of 1992. The stars were absolutely crammed into the sky, an astronomers wet dream of constellations.
I am lying in the back of the jeep on my own, completely absorbed in my thoughts and lost in the stars. Around me, the stillness of the Massachusetts night is permeated by the crazy sound of bull frogs, cicadas and other such creatures (I will elaborate on this later). It's one of those travel moments. I often do a trick where I take a conscious mental snapshot of a particular moment in time, which I can recall at any time with perfect clarity. This memory has just joined my mental slide show.
We arrive at our destination, which I think is somewhere in the Springfield region although my memory fails me on this. Anyway, our desired spot is a pub/bar on the outskirts of somewhere and it is in the rear car park of this bar that I alight the vehicle.
The evening is going good and the beer is flowing well. As per usual, I am quickly drunk and head off on one of many toilet stops. Upon my return I notice that somebody has left the storeroom door open, I enter the room and proceed to fill my pockets with bottles of beer. I sneak these back into the main bar and distribute them amongst my mates. I am to return to the storeroom for 5 sorties before I am suspected of my criminal acts and ejected from the premises.
It's around 15 minutes later and I am waiting outside the building for my friends to emerge. I hear the unmistakable sound of a fracas in the bar foyer and go to investigate. My friend Andy emerges through the front door of the bar in a very animated state. Behind him are the 2 Americans that work in the kitchen, Mike and DJ. Mike, happens to be Crazy Al's nephew and DJ is his best mate. Although the 2 boys are only 17, they are enormous and not to be messed with. DJ is actually the guy that drank the bug juice contaminated with my urine and consequently battered me with a chair. Never quite content with the punishment he administered he is looking for an excuse to have another go. In approximately 5 minutes I am going to afford him that opportunity.
Andy, is from Manchester, well Wythenshawe to be more precise. Wythenshawe, for those of you that have not heard of it's reputation, has been dubbed the largest council estate in Europe. It was originally created as a garden city in the 1930's but fast became an overspill city for the slums and squalor of Manchester. During the 1960's and 1970's, Wythenshawe developed it's reputation as as very bad place to live and a place to stay away from. So, as you can imagine, Andy is quite rough and ready and fancies himself as a bit of a hard man. Right now he is like raging bull, ripping off his shirt in a very aggressive manner and saying "Come on you American faggots, let's fucking have it Manchester style". Alarm bells are starting to ring in my head, of my own possible involvement in this dispute. As a none fighting person, I do not relish the possibilities of this challenge, even in my drunken state. As it turns out, alarm bells are not going to be the only thing that will be ringing in my head.
The argument intensifies and the 2 Americans start pushing Andy backwards towards a small playing field. As he flies backwards he notices me and shouts "Are you with me on this Andy kid"? I'm thinking "Like fuck, I'm with you on this", but what actually comes out of my mouth is "Too fucking right, lets kick some American arse".
They're on the playing field now and the Americans are circling their prey. Andy is still intent on the fact that he is going to have them both, but as far as I can see, he is about to get a proper pummeling. Andy throws the first punch which connects with Mike's head but all this does is infuriate him and provokes the counter attack. This happens quickly, Mike returns the punch which also connects with a sickening crack. DJ then grabs Andy from behind and bear hugs him up in the air. Mike lands a few punches whilst Andy is in the air and I am thinking "they've done this before, it's almost choreographed". My thoughts are cut short, as DJ drops Andy to the ground with a knee in the back. He falls to the floor in agony and gets repeatedly kicked in the head. This is my queue, I run in with arms flailing like a windmill, with no particular, accuracy, power, speed or conviction. I am halfway between the pair of them when it hits me "Thwaacckkkk". DJ, has right hooked me right in the temple and it feels like I have just run head first into a brick wall. I thought that seeing stars was something that only happened in cartoons, but right now I am seeing large cartoon stars, as I lie on my back with my body exposed to any further attack. DJ, pounces on me whilst Mike pounces on Andy. He says, "Are you giving up, you English pussy"?, to which I reply "Yes, get off me, my heads killing". Andy meanwhile is still hurling abuse, even though he is in no position to do so. In my mind I am urging him to stop and he eventually concedes. DJ lowers down on top of me with all his weight and says, "I ought to fucking finish you off right now, for pissing in the bug juice". With those words said, they both head off towards the pub, whilst Andy and I writhe around in pain.
Andy, is up on his feet, blood pouring from his head wounds. He is fuming and goes tearing off in the direction of the pub. I am unable to move and in retrospect, concussed. Besides my injuries, I have had my t-shirt ripped off my back and a gold chain given to me as a gift from my ex, snapped from around my neck. My head is literally throbbing, ringing and full of nothing but pain. Once again I hear an altercation in the distance and I think, "hold on hear we go". I drag myself up, just in time to see Andy racing after the camp station wagon, wielding some kind of implement. The station wagon suddenly stops, allowing Andy the chance to bring his implement crashing down at least 4 times on the vehicle windows, which break with a sickening smash of glass. The station wagon then accelerates off into the distance whilst Andy hurls abuse at it's passengers.
Thirty minutes later and Andy and I are heading off into the Massachusetts countryside, our bodies battered and our minds in other places. We have no idea where we are going or how far it is to Crane Lake camp. All we know is that it was a 30 minute drive to get to the bar and it is now 1.30am. It is pretty clear that Andy is going to get the 6 minute warning but I am hoping that if I can make it back on time, I can salvage my arse. This is when it all starts to get quite humorous.
We are staggering along like 2 war victims and all we can hear are absolutely crazy sounds coming from everywhere. We can pinpoint the bull frogs "whhoooaahhhhhoooaahh", and the cicada's "shhhiiiiiiiiiiiiii" but the night is literally alive with noises and some of them are too ridiculous for words. Besides that, the night is illuminated by stars and even more peculiarly, the bushes are alight with the flashes of fire flies. If you have never seen a fire fly, you are missing a treat. These guys are amazing with their amazing lamp like qualities which they use to attract mates or prey. The first time I saw them was in Israel when one mysteriously appeared in my kibbutz room , sparking a ghost hunt. In Massachusetts the bushes are full of them and it appears as if the bush is flashing on and off, as if you have your Christmas lights set on an annoying setting.
We have walked some distance by now and despite the pain and thoughts of expulsion from the camp, Andy and I are enjoying the banter. We are in fits of laughter brought about by these ridiculous noises that surround and generally enjoying the night walk. However, I eventually decide that I can't walk much further because I am so tired and I become desperate for sleep, this is probably further exacerbated by the concussion that I have sustained. We decide that we will try and get our head down for some rest somewhere, when as if by magic we spot an erected tent in someones massive back garden.
With any stealth that is humanly possible for men in our condition, we run across the garden and unzip the tent. Once inside we make ourselves as comfortable as possible and begin to relax. By now I have fully conditioned my mind to the fact I am going to suffer the 6 minute warning and financial consequences but "fuckit", it's all part of life's rich tapestry. I'm here now and at least I will be able to rest.
Andy and I, are chatting in whispered voices when all of a sudden the tent is illuminated by a powerful flashlight and a booming voice shouts "Get the fuck out of my tent guys, I know you're fucking in there, so I'll give you a count of 10 to get out of my fucking tent before I wrestle you out of my fucking tent". Andy and I look at each other and try to stifle our nervous laughter before getting up and exiting the tent. Once outside the guy pushes us to the ground and says "what the fuck are you doing in my tent". Where do we begin such a tale?
Ten minutes later and a tale seriously biased in our favour has been told. The guy, who turns out to be a professional wrestler, has taken pity on us and is seeing to Andy's wounds in the kitchen. We are given glasses of fruit juice and even more importantly we are offered a lift back to Crane Lake Camp, which we very willingly accept. The wrestler, drives and gives us advice all the way back to camp. Apparently, we are very lucky to have got into the right tent and if we would have been Americans we would have more than likely have been driven straight to the police station. With his piece said, he deposits outside the gates of the camp and bids us farewell. It's around 4 am by now and I have to be up at 7 to serve the kids breakfast. I lie in my bed staring at Harry the Hood, my head throbbing against the pillow.
I wake up and have come face to face with my assailants. They actually seem ok with me but take great pleasure in announcing that Andy will be thrown off camp. Right on queue, we hear him shouting outside and go to investigate. Ed, the camp director and one his beef cake hench men are escorting Andy off the premises. Andy turns to us with his his rucksack on his back, a large smile, stretched across his contorted face and in his unmistakable Manchester accent says "fuck em, they pay fuck all anyway". With this he exits the gates and I don't see him again until a meeting years later at his council house in Wythenshawe.
My headache takes a week to go away, the memory of drinking my urine will remain with DJ forever.
Al the crazy chef, Harry the Hood and the stupid bug juice man's revenge
After saving like crazy for almost 2 years, I headed off to America on June 9th 1992. This was my first destination on my 2 year trip around the world and was supposed to be a gentle introduction. I first heard about Camp America during a brief encounter with an English guy at a train station in Cairo in 1989. The fire inside me had been ignited and upon my return from my trip to Egypt I began saving. To cut a long story short, I got a decent paid job, met a girl and fell back into normal life, which meant that my plans to travel were put on the back burner. It took me three years to finally execute my plans, after saving a wedge of cash and mourning a broken relationship.
You get 2 choices of work with Camp America, you are either a camp counsellor or a kitchen/maintenance worker. As a camp counsellor you eat, sleep and shit with the kids, whilst as a kitchen worker you work 3 shifts a day (breakfast, lunch and dinner) with free time between and after these times. To me at this stage of my life there was no competition between these 2 positions. I wanted to party and the position of kitchen worker suited me right to the ground. I bid my farewells to my family at Manchester airport, boarded a plane bound for Newark airport and was on my way. At the airport I was sat next to world snooker champion, Stephen Hendry and on the plane I was sat next to a member of a band called 25th May. In the 2 years previous to my departure I had been seeing lots of bands and had seen 25th of May on several occasions. I took these 2 signs as omens of the great times that lay ahead of me.
Arriving in New York was amazing and everything I expected New York to be. The New York skyline in the background with yellow taxi's everywhere and a cacophony of noise. Like a kid I was transfixed and remained silent throughout the whole hour trip. I have 2 prominent memories of the first night in the hotel. The first is hearing Billy Joel's, piano man for the first time and falling in love with the song. Whilst the second memory was ordering burger and chips and being given a burger and a bag of crisps. I mean who would order a burger and a bag of crisps? It just doesn't make sense.
The next day our group of 5, boarded a public bus and travelled through Upstate New York to Massachusetts. Our camp lay on the outskirts of a village called West Stockbridge, which is located a few miles into Massachusetts, close to the border with Upstate New York. West Stockbridge is in a beautiful area of America in the Berkshire Hills. The village is as quaint as it gets, white wooden buildings, with ornamental carts outside on beautifully manicured lawns. It is also very patriotic, each house displaying the Stars and Stripes from 20 ft high flag poles set in the grass. There were numerous shops in the village but they were all run by the Baldwin family, who I can only surmise were inbred.
The kitchen staff comprised of 13 British nationals, a couple of Americans and a Kiwi. The kitchen and dining room were set away from the rest of the camp and also housed our sleeping quarters, directly above the kitchen and second dining room. The chef was for want of a better description, a psychopathic lunatic. This guy was of African descent, and had a very vocal dislike for white people. He was quite small in stature, around 5ft 6 " and walked with a slight limp. However, he seemed to build this limp into his cool walk routine, which also saw him waving his hands around and generally trying to play "the man". Al, as he was named, also had a great fondness for Bill Cosby and the way that he walked was a reflection of this. He had a stocky frame and took great pride in abusing his power to either intimidate the boys or sexually harass the girls.
Revert to real time.
My room is just about big enough to house a bunk bed and a single bed. I share the room with Hugh, a quite eccentric guy from Devon and Daniel, a very sober and consequently boring guy from Macclesfield. Somehow, even though I am their senior, I end up on the top bunk with my face literally a foot away from the ceiling. There is a large graffiti picture of "Harry the hood" drawn on the ceiling which given my phobia of graffiti disturbs me immensely. Whose "Harry the Hood", I hear you exclaim. Harry the Hood is a strange faced cartoon guy that appears on the side of the milk cartons. I can only assume that at some point, one of the previous kitchen workers has drawn this picture (hold this thought, Harry the Hood will bizarrely turn up in a future tale). For the next 10 weeks, Harry the Hood is the first person I see when I wake up and the last person I see before I go to sleep at night.
We are awoken on the first morning by a banging of a frying pan on our room door, which is followed by Crazy Al (as he as been labelled), shouting at the top of his voice "Wake up, you white boys, sons of whore's, get the fuck out of your beds". Considering that until this point I had been in the middle of a beautiful sleep, with my eyes wide shut, I am more than a little disturbed and instantly wonder whether I have made the right decision to come to the summer camp. This is to be the routine and Al's mantra for the whole summer and we are later to find out that his tantrums are alcohol and drug induced.
I hurriedly get ready and rush down to the kitchen area, where Al is busy looking his staff up and down in a perverse fashion. I am later to find out that he has hand picked his staff from our submitted photographs. He will spend the rest of the summer trying to get us all into bed. After he has finished checking out our bits, we are allocated maintenance and cleaning jobs around the camp. The kids will not turn up for 2 weeks, so it is our job to make the camp homely before they arrive. My job is to paint all the green bits green and all the white bits white, which is no easy task given the amount of wooden huts around the place. The camp is set on a hill, with the kitchen building at the top and Crane Lake at the bottom. In between are all the outbuildings and playing fields.
Two weeks of hard labour later, the kids turn up and our peace is to be totally shattered. These kids are horrors, think Jewish American, loads of money and fired off to camps for the whole summer whilst their parents work and accumulate their wealth. These kids are spoilt, they have everything and want more. As far as these kids are concerned we are their slaves and they mean to make us work for our pittance of a wage. There are rumours that Vidal Sassoon's grandson is on the camp and it would not surprise me. As an example of how ludicrous these kids families are, one of the boys father's in my friends group of kids, sends him porn magazines on a regular basis. The kid is around 10 years old.
It is soon realised that I am useless as a kitchen hand and therefore I am fired off into a small room with a hatch looking out over the dining room and a large cool room behind it. In the cool room, amongst other things are 2 large containers which contain bug juice. If you are American and have been to camp, you will know what bug juice is. There are 2 types of bug juice, well at least on my camp there were. One is red and the other is a bright yellow, not dissimilar to the colour of urine. It is my job to pour 5, 2 litre bottles of this stuff into the large containers and then fill the containers up with water from a hose pipe. Whilst lunch and dinner is being served, it is my job to keep the kids watered whilst they ravage their burgers and chips. Boy, can these kids drink. They are drinking jugs of the stuff as fast as I can pour it. I am rushing around like a fool, trying to keep up with their greedy demands. However, as soon as I get back to my observation hatch, there are 20 hands raised up with empty jugs in them. If they deem me to not be moving fast enough, they start to bang their jugs like prisoners banging their cups on the bars of their cells. Some of them even shout "hey, stupid bug juice man, bring me some stupid bug juice" and other such derogatory chants. This particularly annoys me and prompts me to go slower.
Subconsciously I am plotting my revenge.
Throughout the whole summer, Crazy Al's behaviour becomes more and more erratic, as he indulges in his narcotic and alcohol habit. One of our tasks is to give the kids snacks at 3.30 pm to keep them going between meals (fat little bastards). However, Al often hits the bottle and then sleeps between shifts without telling us which snacks to give the kids. This results in one of the kitchen staff having to go and bang on his door and consequently suffer his wrath. It usually goes something like this, knock, knock "What, what do you want"? "erm Al, it's snack time, what shall we give them"? "Fuck, Christ, you fucking white boys are stupid, give then ice cream, give them ice cream man, yeah give them ice cream". He would then fall back into a deep sleep and we would feed the fat, gluttonous, little pigs ice cream.
Throughout the summer, the kitchen staff are partying like animals. We are literally going through a slab of beer each on a daily basis. Granted this stuff is weak but when consumed in the quantities that we are drinking it, it does the job. It becomes routine to finish our dinner time kitchen duties which finish around 7 pm and then the boys will then go off and have a game of football. A weak argument about the evening's pastimes then ensues before we inevitably head down into West Stockbridge to purchase slabs of beer.
One night we actually manage to break this routine and decide to do something more cultural like play cards or something along those lines. However, an hour into this new pastime and we are all getting shaky for ale. With a "fuck it" mentality to which we became accustomed over the summer of 1992, we head of into Baldwinsville to fetch the beer. However, our hesitance has ruined it for us, we get into town to find that the Baldwins have all gone to bed to produce more inbred Baldwins no doubt. We return to camp and a mist of confusion darkens our mood. What are we to do? By now we have forgotten that initially we had planned a none drinking night. Now, it's a crisis on a grand scale. We hold a meeting in my room and lots of idea's get thrown around before someone comes up with the gem of driving over the New York state border and purchasing our liquid gold at a truck stop. We dance around in glee at our saving solution before it is pointed out that we don't in fact have a vehicle. The person with the idea then interjects with the following show stopping statement "Well we could take the camp station wagon". Such is our desire for alcohol that we pay little heed to the consequences of this action and it's all systems go. Unfortunately for me I am the only one with a driving license and therefore get the job as chauffeur come delivery man. This fact is trivial when compared to the fact that somebody has got to retrieve the station wagon keys from Crazy Al's bedside cabinet whilst he sleeps. But who would be stupid enough to take on that task?
I tentatively turn the handle of Al's bedroom door and wince as it creaks open. The others are all located in the corridor trying to stifle their nervous giggles. I choose this point to inform the reader of Crazy Al's other hobby besides alcohol and drugs. The guy is obsessed with terrapins and has hundreds of the little blighters all over his floor. The majority are to be found in a paddling pool which is slap bang in the middle of his room but they are literally free to roam anywhere. With this in mind I have taken off my shoes and socks so that I can make careful strides across Al's floor and feel them out with my toes. I hasten to add that it is pitch black in Al's room and I only have a vague idea of where the keys will be. I estimate that I am half way across the floor when I encounter my first terrapin , fortunately my bare toes are sensitive enough not to crush him. My confidence rises and with beer on my mind I speed things up. This is to my detriment as it turns out. Within seconds I have fallen full length over the paddling pool, Al has turned on the light and is bolt upright in his bed. His face is totally illuminated and his eyes wide open. I brace myself for the onslaught as outside I hear the others giggling like a pack of hyenas. He looks directly at me, the whites of his eyeballs the size of pool balls and shouts "What's wrong with you boy give them ice cream, give them fucking ice cream". With his words released, he then switches out the light and falls back to sleep.
With balls of steel, I continue with my mission and grab the keys. My kitchen Buddy Dave and I then drive over the New York state border and grab the slabs. However, in my nervousness at what I have just been through I manage to leave the handbrake on and burn it out. This does not go unnoticed but blatant denial takes away any blame on my part. I think Al is onto me and have to tread carefully for the rest of the summer.
The kids become increasingly more beastly as the summer goes on and by the last week I am liable to explode. As, I say my sub conscience has been plotting it's revenge and by George it does not come any sweeter than this. It's a blazing hot Wednesday afternoon and my friend and I decide to join a group of the American camp counsellors at the nearby Card Lake. In the knowledge that I have to do the dinner shift, I tread cautiously with a few slow beers. This is all fine and dandy, until somebody offers me a tequila slammer, which turns into another tequila slammer and another etc etc. Before you know it, I am being carried back from Card Lake slumped over 2 guys shoulders. In the modicum of common sense that I have lurking in the depths of my rational mind, I assume that I can be thrown into my bug juice room and away from Al's prying eyes. Unfortunately, I assume wrong. When we get back to camp, Al has decided to throw a spontaneous bbq due to the hot weather. He spots me and shouts "Hey white boy, don't just stand there, serve them hot dogs". I am propped up behind the hot dog cauldron, in a manner not too dissimilar to 'Weekend at Bernies'.
Before long there is an enormous queue waiting for hot dogs and I am in no fit state to serve them. One of my friends has the sense to relieve me of my duties and tells me to hang out in the bug juice room. The story from here on in, has been told to me through the tales of those that witnessed the following. The guy that relieved me of my hot dog duties, comes to check on me in the bug juice room and finds me relieving myself into the large container of yellow bug juice. He is apparently in disbelief at what he witnesses and is concerned about how we are going to rectify the situation. The only way that we could rectify the situation it turns out is to notify the kitchen staff of my actions and let the kids get their daily dose of bug juice "who's the stupid bug juice man now"? Unfortunately for me, one of the American kitchen staff who nobody likes, is not notified and consequently get his fill of my salty fluid. This guy is enormous and not a person to mess with. After dinner I crash and burn in my bunk bed, only to be awoken by the brute in question, who is repeatedly bringing a metal chair crashing down onto my torso.
The story does not end there, in fact it takes an even more incredulous turn. Fast forward one year and I am at a youth hostel in Canberra, Australia. I have met a couple of guys that I have been hanging out with for a few days. We are sat having a few beers in the hostel when we coincidentally get talking about travelling through America. It turns out that one of the guys has also been on summer camp 2 years previously. I ask where his camp was located and am pleasantly surprised that he too was in Massachusetts. I ask him where and am even more surprised to narrow it down to the vicinity of Pittsfield. I tell him that my camp was also near to Pittsfield and was called Crane Lake Camp. The guy looks on stunned, he says something along the lines of "you're joking". It turns out that not only was this guy at the same camp but in the same top bunk. We literally go from country to state, to town, to village, to camp, to block, to room to bunk with 8 moves and finally arrive at "Harry the Hood", which we both shout out at the same time in amazement.
This was to be one of many "Small world" incidents that I have had in my life and they never fail to freak me out.
You get 2 choices of work with Camp America, you are either a camp counsellor or a kitchen/maintenance worker. As a camp counsellor you eat, sleep and shit with the kids, whilst as a kitchen worker you work 3 shifts a day (breakfast, lunch and dinner) with free time between and after these times. To me at this stage of my life there was no competition between these 2 positions. I wanted to party and the position of kitchen worker suited me right to the ground. I bid my farewells to my family at Manchester airport, boarded a plane bound for Newark airport and was on my way. At the airport I was sat next to world snooker champion, Stephen Hendry and on the plane I was sat next to a member of a band called 25th May. In the 2 years previous to my departure I had been seeing lots of bands and had seen 25th of May on several occasions. I took these 2 signs as omens of the great times that lay ahead of me.
Arriving in New York was amazing and everything I expected New York to be. The New York skyline in the background with yellow taxi's everywhere and a cacophony of noise. Like a kid I was transfixed and remained silent throughout the whole hour trip. I have 2 prominent memories of the first night in the hotel. The first is hearing Billy Joel's, piano man for the first time and falling in love with the song. Whilst the second memory was ordering burger and chips and being given a burger and a bag of crisps. I mean who would order a burger and a bag of crisps? It just doesn't make sense.
The next day our group of 5, boarded a public bus and travelled through Upstate New York to Massachusetts. Our camp lay on the outskirts of a village called West Stockbridge, which is located a few miles into Massachusetts, close to the border with Upstate New York. West Stockbridge is in a beautiful area of America in the Berkshire Hills. The village is as quaint as it gets, white wooden buildings, with ornamental carts outside on beautifully manicured lawns. It is also very patriotic, each house displaying the Stars and Stripes from 20 ft high flag poles set in the grass. There were numerous shops in the village but they were all run by the Baldwin family, who I can only surmise were inbred.
The kitchen staff comprised of 13 British nationals, a couple of Americans and a Kiwi. The kitchen and dining room were set away from the rest of the camp and also housed our sleeping quarters, directly above the kitchen and second dining room. The chef was for want of a better description, a psychopathic lunatic. This guy was of African descent, and had a very vocal dislike for white people. He was quite small in stature, around 5ft 6 " and walked with a slight limp. However, he seemed to build this limp into his cool walk routine, which also saw him waving his hands around and generally trying to play "the man". Al, as he was named, also had a great fondness for Bill Cosby and the way that he walked was a reflection of this. He had a stocky frame and took great pride in abusing his power to either intimidate the boys or sexually harass the girls.
Revert to real time.
My room is just about big enough to house a bunk bed and a single bed. I share the room with Hugh, a quite eccentric guy from Devon and Daniel, a very sober and consequently boring guy from Macclesfield. Somehow, even though I am their senior, I end up on the top bunk with my face literally a foot away from the ceiling. There is a large graffiti picture of "Harry the hood" drawn on the ceiling which given my phobia of graffiti disturbs me immensely. Whose "Harry the Hood", I hear you exclaim. Harry the Hood is a strange faced cartoon guy that appears on the side of the milk cartons. I can only assume that at some point, one of the previous kitchen workers has drawn this picture (hold this thought, Harry the Hood will bizarrely turn up in a future tale). For the next 10 weeks, Harry the Hood is the first person I see when I wake up and the last person I see before I go to sleep at night.
We are awoken on the first morning by a banging of a frying pan on our room door, which is followed by Crazy Al (as he as been labelled), shouting at the top of his voice "Wake up, you white boys, sons of whore's, get the fuck out of your beds". Considering that until this point I had been in the middle of a beautiful sleep, with my eyes wide shut, I am more than a little disturbed and instantly wonder whether I have made the right decision to come to the summer camp. This is to be the routine and Al's mantra for the whole summer and we are later to find out that his tantrums are alcohol and drug induced.
I hurriedly get ready and rush down to the kitchen area, where Al is busy looking his staff up and down in a perverse fashion. I am later to find out that he has hand picked his staff from our submitted photographs. He will spend the rest of the summer trying to get us all into bed. After he has finished checking out our bits, we are allocated maintenance and cleaning jobs around the camp. The kids will not turn up for 2 weeks, so it is our job to make the camp homely before they arrive. My job is to paint all the green bits green and all the white bits white, which is no easy task given the amount of wooden huts around the place. The camp is set on a hill, with the kitchen building at the top and Crane Lake at the bottom. In between are all the outbuildings and playing fields.
Two weeks of hard labour later, the kids turn up and our peace is to be totally shattered. These kids are horrors, think Jewish American, loads of money and fired off to camps for the whole summer whilst their parents work and accumulate their wealth. These kids are spoilt, they have everything and want more. As far as these kids are concerned we are their slaves and they mean to make us work for our pittance of a wage. There are rumours that Vidal Sassoon's grandson is on the camp and it would not surprise me. As an example of how ludicrous these kids families are, one of the boys father's in my friends group of kids, sends him porn magazines on a regular basis. The kid is around 10 years old.
It is soon realised that I am useless as a kitchen hand and therefore I am fired off into a small room with a hatch looking out over the dining room and a large cool room behind it. In the cool room, amongst other things are 2 large containers which contain bug juice. If you are American and have been to camp, you will know what bug juice is. There are 2 types of bug juice, well at least on my camp there were. One is red and the other is a bright yellow, not dissimilar to the colour of urine. It is my job to pour 5, 2 litre bottles of this stuff into the large containers and then fill the containers up with water from a hose pipe. Whilst lunch and dinner is being served, it is my job to keep the kids watered whilst they ravage their burgers and chips. Boy, can these kids drink. They are drinking jugs of the stuff as fast as I can pour it. I am rushing around like a fool, trying to keep up with their greedy demands. However, as soon as I get back to my observation hatch, there are 20 hands raised up with empty jugs in them. If they deem me to not be moving fast enough, they start to bang their jugs like prisoners banging their cups on the bars of their cells. Some of them even shout "hey, stupid bug juice man, bring me some stupid bug juice" and other such derogatory chants. This particularly annoys me and prompts me to go slower.
Subconsciously I am plotting my revenge.
Throughout the whole summer, Crazy Al's behaviour becomes more and more erratic, as he indulges in his narcotic and alcohol habit. One of our tasks is to give the kids snacks at 3.30 pm to keep them going between meals (fat little bastards). However, Al often hits the bottle and then sleeps between shifts without telling us which snacks to give the kids. This results in one of the kitchen staff having to go and bang on his door and consequently suffer his wrath. It usually goes something like this, knock, knock "What, what do you want"? "erm Al, it's snack time, what shall we give them"? "Fuck, Christ, you fucking white boys are stupid, give then ice cream, give them ice cream man, yeah give them ice cream". He would then fall back into a deep sleep and we would feed the fat, gluttonous, little pigs ice cream.
Throughout the summer, the kitchen staff are partying like animals. We are literally going through a slab of beer each on a daily basis. Granted this stuff is weak but when consumed in the quantities that we are drinking it, it does the job. It becomes routine to finish our dinner time kitchen duties which finish around 7 pm and then the boys will then go off and have a game of football. A weak argument about the evening's pastimes then ensues before we inevitably head down into West Stockbridge to purchase slabs of beer.
One night we actually manage to break this routine and decide to do something more cultural like play cards or something along those lines. However, an hour into this new pastime and we are all getting shaky for ale. With a "fuck it" mentality to which we became accustomed over the summer of 1992, we head of into Baldwinsville to fetch the beer. However, our hesitance has ruined it for us, we get into town to find that the Baldwins have all gone to bed to produce more inbred Baldwins no doubt. We return to camp and a mist of confusion darkens our mood. What are we to do? By now we have forgotten that initially we had planned a none drinking night. Now, it's a crisis on a grand scale. We hold a meeting in my room and lots of idea's get thrown around before someone comes up with the gem of driving over the New York state border and purchasing our liquid gold at a truck stop. We dance around in glee at our saving solution before it is pointed out that we don't in fact have a vehicle. The person with the idea then interjects with the following show stopping statement "Well we could take the camp station wagon". Such is our desire for alcohol that we pay little heed to the consequences of this action and it's all systems go. Unfortunately for me I am the only one with a driving license and therefore get the job as chauffeur come delivery man. This fact is trivial when compared to the fact that somebody has got to retrieve the station wagon keys from Crazy Al's bedside cabinet whilst he sleeps. But who would be stupid enough to take on that task?
I tentatively turn the handle of Al's bedroom door and wince as it creaks open. The others are all located in the corridor trying to stifle their nervous giggles. I choose this point to inform the reader of Crazy Al's other hobby besides alcohol and drugs. The guy is obsessed with terrapins and has hundreds of the little blighters all over his floor. The majority are to be found in a paddling pool which is slap bang in the middle of his room but they are literally free to roam anywhere. With this in mind I have taken off my shoes and socks so that I can make careful strides across Al's floor and feel them out with my toes. I hasten to add that it is pitch black in Al's room and I only have a vague idea of where the keys will be. I estimate that I am half way across the floor when I encounter my first terrapin , fortunately my bare toes are sensitive enough not to crush him. My confidence rises and with beer on my mind I speed things up. This is to my detriment as it turns out. Within seconds I have fallen full length over the paddling pool, Al has turned on the light and is bolt upright in his bed. His face is totally illuminated and his eyes wide open. I brace myself for the onslaught as outside I hear the others giggling like a pack of hyenas. He looks directly at me, the whites of his eyeballs the size of pool balls and shouts "What's wrong with you boy give them ice cream, give them fucking ice cream". With his words released, he then switches out the light and falls back to sleep.
With balls of steel, I continue with my mission and grab the keys. My kitchen Buddy Dave and I then drive over the New York state border and grab the slabs. However, in my nervousness at what I have just been through I manage to leave the handbrake on and burn it out. This does not go unnoticed but blatant denial takes away any blame on my part. I think Al is onto me and have to tread carefully for the rest of the summer.
The kids become increasingly more beastly as the summer goes on and by the last week I am liable to explode. As, I say my sub conscience has been plotting it's revenge and by George it does not come any sweeter than this. It's a blazing hot Wednesday afternoon and my friend and I decide to join a group of the American camp counsellors at the nearby Card Lake. In the knowledge that I have to do the dinner shift, I tread cautiously with a few slow beers. This is all fine and dandy, until somebody offers me a tequila slammer, which turns into another tequila slammer and another etc etc. Before you know it, I am being carried back from Card Lake slumped over 2 guys shoulders. In the modicum of common sense that I have lurking in the depths of my rational mind, I assume that I can be thrown into my bug juice room and away from Al's prying eyes. Unfortunately, I assume wrong. When we get back to camp, Al has decided to throw a spontaneous bbq due to the hot weather. He spots me and shouts "Hey white boy, don't just stand there, serve them hot dogs". I am propped up behind the hot dog cauldron, in a manner not too dissimilar to 'Weekend at Bernies'.
Before long there is an enormous queue waiting for hot dogs and I am in no fit state to serve them. One of my friends has the sense to relieve me of my duties and tells me to hang out in the bug juice room. The story from here on in, has been told to me through the tales of those that witnessed the following. The guy that relieved me of my hot dog duties, comes to check on me in the bug juice room and finds me relieving myself into the large container of yellow bug juice. He is apparently in disbelief at what he witnesses and is concerned about how we are going to rectify the situation. The only way that we could rectify the situation it turns out is to notify the kitchen staff of my actions and let the kids get their daily dose of bug juice "who's the stupid bug juice man now"? Unfortunately for me, one of the American kitchen staff who nobody likes, is not notified and consequently get his fill of my salty fluid. This guy is enormous and not a person to mess with. After dinner I crash and burn in my bunk bed, only to be awoken by the brute in question, who is repeatedly bringing a metal chair crashing down onto my torso.
The story does not end there, in fact it takes an even more incredulous turn. Fast forward one year and I am at a youth hostel in Canberra, Australia. I have met a couple of guys that I have been hanging out with for a few days. We are sat having a few beers in the hostel when we coincidentally get talking about travelling through America. It turns out that one of the guys has also been on summer camp 2 years previously. I ask where his camp was located and am pleasantly surprised that he too was in Massachusetts. I ask him where and am even more surprised to narrow it down to the vicinity of Pittsfield. I tell him that my camp was also near to Pittsfield and was called Crane Lake Camp. The guy looks on stunned, he says something along the lines of "you're joking". It turns out that not only was this guy at the same camp but in the same top bunk. We literally go from country to state, to town, to village, to camp, to block, to room to bunk with 8 moves and finally arrive at "Harry the Hood", which we both shout out at the same time in amazement.
This was to be one of many "Small world" incidents that I have had in my life and they never fail to freak me out.
Me and the chief got soul to soul
I arrive in Nadi, Fiji in October 1992, approximately two years after my sister had visited this beautiful country and provided me with positive feedback. At this point in my travels I am fairly green and eager to follow the path that she had already trodden. As it turns out, and quite by chance, I end up following the her path with microscopic precision.
Ian, my travel partner and I are out sightseeing on our first day in Nadi, when we have a chance encounter with a guy who is intent on selling us a guided trip to his village in the mountains. The guys name is Pende, a name that will be forever etched in my memory for reasons that I am soon to reveal. We are taken to a nearby cafe, where we are treated to tea and biscuits whilst Pende shows us a little brochure that he has made. In the brochure are pictures of his isolated village, which is without proper sanitation, and has no electricity or gas supply. Now, this may not seem such an attractive proposition to many people but to Ian and I it sounds wonderful. With great excitement we sign on the dotted line and arrange for Pende to meet us the following day to transport us to the village.
We spend the rest of the day walking around Nadi and breathing in the culture. To me, this is what travelling is about. Just walking down the normal streets and seeing what's going on. It's all too easy for people to go on holiday or travelling and live their everyday lives in another country. There are precious few places in the world that are untouched by the polluted hand of mass tourism but it is possible to absorb other cultures anywhere if you just care to step off the beaten path. The beaten path is often only a hundred yards from the tourist super highway. The back streets where the old lady hangs out her washing, the young boy watches his dad fixing his car, the corner where the local youth have gathered, the bench where the 2 old guys complain about their wife's, all places where real life can be truly captured.
In Fiji it's hard to walk anywhere without finding a group of Fijian guys sat around a large container of what looks like dirty water, with a half coconut shell in their hands and totally bloodshot eyes. It was not long before we were beckoned over and asked to join them in their strange pursuits. Of course we were delighted. It turns out that this is kava, the ground up root of the kava plant. Kava actually means intoxicant in Greek and it's not difficult to see why. Consequently, the pace of life in the Fijian half of Fiji is extremely chilled out and they live in a totally manjana society. Their reluctance to do anything at pace is referred to as Fiji time and this is a very worthy definition. I say, the Fijian half of Fiji because there are almost half as many Indian's populating the country as Fijians. Not surprisingly given Britain's colonial past, Fiji was colonised by the Brit's who brought the Indian's over as slaves. The Indians being industrious have dominated the commercial market and are busy making money whilst the the Fijian's sit around drinking Kava and generally chilling out.
Ian and I are welcomed with open arms and although only one of the ten or so guys speaks English to any degree, there does not seem to be any problem communicating. As we are to find out later, the Fijian's are famed for their telepathic abilities, possibly down to the amount of kava they consume. They refer to this is Fiji speak. The ritual surrounding the kava goes as follows; a half coconut shell is immersed in the container of kava by the person about to consume. The rest of the gathering then clap 3 times and watch as the holder of the coconut shell necks the kava down in one. He then passes it to the next person in a clockwise fashion. We wait for our turn, full of curiosity and trepidation. Finally the coconut shell arrives in my possession and I adhere to the ritual. I report that the administered juice neither taste disgusting or nice. In fact it tastes like dirty water which is exactly how it looks. It does however give a strange numbing sensation to the back of the throat. Ian takes his dose and then we elect to leave, much to the disappointment of our new friends, who would quite willingly allow us to stay for the rest of our life's getting stoned with them.
The next morning we're up early and wait for Pende to arrive at the designated spot. He is true to his word and thankfully not running on Fiji time. We jump in the back of his utility wagon and we're off into the distant mountains, feeling free as eagles and excited at the thought of the forthcoming five days. Once we are well into the mountains a few hours from Nadi, Pende stops the vehicle and lets us stretch our legs. We stand and admire the beautiful island which is far greener than we both expected. I sense that this is going to be an everlasting memory in the making.
Our arrival in the village is met with much curiosity and excitement. As we drive by, the villagers come out to wave at us from the front of their wooden, straw roofed houses. They wear magnificent smiles upon their faces and look genuinely happy to receive us into their village. As always in these places of little wealth or communication with the outside world, the people are blissfully happy in their ignorance of other cultures. They are content with what little they have and they want for nothing (It would be interesting to return there in this age of information to see if they are still so happy). The truck eventually comes to a standstill and we jump off the back. We are shown to a little straw hut which are called bure's in Fiji. Our bure is about the size of a garden hut and just about fits our mattresses and rucksacks in it. I am thrilled with it and set about laying out my things. Pende says that he will come to pick us up later to take us for dinner.
We are awoken from out short nap by a tapping on the door. As is often the case when I am travelling it takes me a little while to work out where I actually am. Waking up in a bure, in an isolated mountain village, somewhere in the middle of Fiji can do strange things to a man's head. I open the door and am confronted by Pende who has come to get us for dinner. Outside it is absolutely pitch black. Remember, this village has no electricity supply and although it is only 5.30 pm it is completely dark already. I only know that it is Pende at the door because he illuminates his own face with a torch. Ian and I quickly get ready and follow Pende through the village. He casually informs us that we have been invited to eat dinner with the chief of the village. I am so excited at this prospect that I can't contain my conversation which ejaculates out of my mouth even faster than it normally does. I'm thinking, wow this is why I travel, going to have dinner with the chief of the village, it does not get much better than this.
The village is set out in a tier system with the chief living at the top of the tier. We eventually make it to his house and are welcomed by the chief into his humble abode. His eyes are glazed and it is apparent that he has been on the kava already. Inside there are a number of people gathered, mainly Fijian but also a German couple and a Japanese guy. To one side of the room is a large, low table which is laden with food. Taking pride of place in the middle of the room is a large cauldron of kava. The chief has an extremely friendly face which is honoured by a permanent smile. He proudly points out a sharks jaw and teeth which are hanging on his wall. Pende explains to us that the chief caught the shark himself and is very proud of his kill.
We eat dinner and make polite conversation with the other travellers in the room but in the back of my mind I am eager to have a proper session on the kava. I don't have to wait long. With the formality of dinner out of the way, the chief is eager to entertain his guests with a few coconut shells of his favourite poison. We form a circle of around ten people, which includes the German's and the Japanese guy plus a select group of Fijian's including the chief and Pende. The cauldron of kava sits in the middle of us and is calling out our names. I have decided that I am going to push the limits tonight and see how far this intoxicant can take me. Let the ceremony begin.
The chief is first up, he must have done this a million times but he maintains the enthusiasm of a teenager unhinging his first bra strap. The coconut shell is dipped into the cauldron, we all clap three times and the kava is downed in one. The chief seems proud of his achievement and looks to us for encouragement. I return his smile and I feel that he can sense my eagerness to join him in his intoxicating pursuits. However, I am fifth in line and have to wait until my fellow travellers have grimaced through their doses first. I can tell by the reaction of the others that this is going to be a short night for them. I am happy about this because it means that my turn will come more quickly. My turn comes and I knock the kava back with passion of a Jack Russel on heat. As I mentioned earlier, the taste is not unpleasant although I would not choose to drink it if it did not have a mind altering effect.
Within the hour the group has diminished to four people. All the backpackers have gone to bed including Ian. I am drinking with the hardcore kava drinkers now and I am determined to keep up with them. I estimate that we've have had up to ten rounds and I am feeling mildly euphoric. My band of kava brothers and I have a strong bond by now and it's all getting a bit touchy feely. The more kava we drink, the stronger this unspoken bond becomes. It is all very strange yet all very natural. I look into the eyes of my compadre's and I am filled with a deep sense of knowing. At one point I attempt to speak and the chief raises his finger to his lips. I instantly know what he means. There is no need for words, what we are experiencing here transcends language. This is Fiji speak, a telepathic form of communication. Drinking vast amounts of kava has opened a portal to another world. By the time that I have reached this level I am in a profoundly euphoric state.
The other two Fijians eventually leave and I am left alone with the chief. I am feeling utterly wasted but in a really, really nice way. My mind is filled with the Happy Monday's lyric, "Me and the chief got slowly stoned, me and the chief got soul to soul". The song won't got way, it circulates my mind with increasing intensity. I start to hum the tune and the chief listens and nods his head to my mumblings. At least I think he does but by this point I am not sure of anything. I have had a communication overload. Suddenly I am hit by the absurdity of the whole situation and I start to laugh. This starts as an inward laugh but I cannot contain it for long. The laughter is so deep that I feel as though my head is going to explode. I grab my sides to try and control it but my efforts are futile. I am utterly consumed by my own laughter and nothing is going to stop it. The laughter is contageous and before I know it the chief is also laughing. In a truly fantastic moment, the chief and I grab hold of each other, our eyes filled with joyful tears and our bodies shaking uncontrollably. We are literally howling with laughter and unable to do anything about it. Eventually, the laughter ends and it is time for me to leave. I attempt to stand up but this is not an easy task, my equilibrium in tatters. The chief helps me to my feet the best he can and I stagger for the door. When I open the door I am both amazed and jubilant that it is light. I had not considered the consequences of staggering back through the village to my bure in the darkness. As I stumble out of the door, I turn back and look at the chief. He looks me in the eye and waves, a moment engraved into my mind forever.
I arrive back at the bure and Ian awakes. He asks me what time it is but I have no clue or concern. For the past ten hours, time has been irrelevant, I have transcended both time and language. He asks me what I have been up to but I have no answer.
A week later I ring my sister to inform her of my adventure. She listens with interest before asking me the name of the guy who sold us the trip. I tell her Pende's name and she is in disbelief that she has coincidentally been to the same place and had a similar experience. However, she did not push the limits like I did and therefore had no clue of the power of Fiji speak.
Ian, my travel partner and I are out sightseeing on our first day in Nadi, when we have a chance encounter with a guy who is intent on selling us a guided trip to his village in the mountains. The guys name is Pende, a name that will be forever etched in my memory for reasons that I am soon to reveal. We are taken to a nearby cafe, where we are treated to tea and biscuits whilst Pende shows us a little brochure that he has made. In the brochure are pictures of his isolated village, which is without proper sanitation, and has no electricity or gas supply. Now, this may not seem such an attractive proposition to many people but to Ian and I it sounds wonderful. With great excitement we sign on the dotted line and arrange for Pende to meet us the following day to transport us to the village.
We spend the rest of the day walking around Nadi and breathing in the culture. To me, this is what travelling is about. Just walking down the normal streets and seeing what's going on. It's all too easy for people to go on holiday or travelling and live their everyday lives in another country. There are precious few places in the world that are untouched by the polluted hand of mass tourism but it is possible to absorb other cultures anywhere if you just care to step off the beaten path. The beaten path is often only a hundred yards from the tourist super highway. The back streets where the old lady hangs out her washing, the young boy watches his dad fixing his car, the corner where the local youth have gathered, the bench where the 2 old guys complain about their wife's, all places where real life can be truly captured.
In Fiji it's hard to walk anywhere without finding a group of Fijian guys sat around a large container of what looks like dirty water, with a half coconut shell in their hands and totally bloodshot eyes. It was not long before we were beckoned over and asked to join them in their strange pursuits. Of course we were delighted. It turns out that this is kava, the ground up root of the kava plant. Kava actually means intoxicant in Greek and it's not difficult to see why. Consequently, the pace of life in the Fijian half of Fiji is extremely chilled out and they live in a totally manjana society. Their reluctance to do anything at pace is referred to as Fiji time and this is a very worthy definition. I say, the Fijian half of Fiji because there are almost half as many Indian's populating the country as Fijians. Not surprisingly given Britain's colonial past, Fiji was colonised by the Brit's who brought the Indian's over as slaves. The Indians being industrious have dominated the commercial market and are busy making money whilst the the Fijian's sit around drinking Kava and generally chilling out.
Ian and I are welcomed with open arms and although only one of the ten or so guys speaks English to any degree, there does not seem to be any problem communicating. As we are to find out later, the Fijian's are famed for their telepathic abilities, possibly down to the amount of kava they consume. They refer to this is Fiji speak. The ritual surrounding the kava goes as follows; a half coconut shell is immersed in the container of kava by the person about to consume. The rest of the gathering then clap 3 times and watch as the holder of the coconut shell necks the kava down in one. He then passes it to the next person in a clockwise fashion. We wait for our turn, full of curiosity and trepidation. Finally the coconut shell arrives in my possession and I adhere to the ritual. I report that the administered juice neither taste disgusting or nice. In fact it tastes like dirty water which is exactly how it looks. It does however give a strange numbing sensation to the back of the throat. Ian takes his dose and then we elect to leave, much to the disappointment of our new friends, who would quite willingly allow us to stay for the rest of our life's getting stoned with them.
The next morning we're up early and wait for Pende to arrive at the designated spot. He is true to his word and thankfully not running on Fiji time. We jump in the back of his utility wagon and we're off into the distant mountains, feeling free as eagles and excited at the thought of the forthcoming five days. Once we are well into the mountains a few hours from Nadi, Pende stops the vehicle and lets us stretch our legs. We stand and admire the beautiful island which is far greener than we both expected. I sense that this is going to be an everlasting memory in the making.
Our arrival in the village is met with much curiosity and excitement. As we drive by, the villagers come out to wave at us from the front of their wooden, straw roofed houses. They wear magnificent smiles upon their faces and look genuinely happy to receive us into their village. As always in these places of little wealth or communication with the outside world, the people are blissfully happy in their ignorance of other cultures. They are content with what little they have and they want for nothing (It would be interesting to return there in this age of information to see if they are still so happy). The truck eventually comes to a standstill and we jump off the back. We are shown to a little straw hut which are called bure's in Fiji. Our bure is about the size of a garden hut and just about fits our mattresses and rucksacks in it. I am thrilled with it and set about laying out my things. Pende says that he will come to pick us up later to take us for dinner.
We are awoken from out short nap by a tapping on the door. As is often the case when I am travelling it takes me a little while to work out where I actually am. Waking up in a bure, in an isolated mountain village, somewhere in the middle of Fiji can do strange things to a man's head. I open the door and am confronted by Pende who has come to get us for dinner. Outside it is absolutely pitch black. Remember, this village has no electricity supply and although it is only 5.30 pm it is completely dark already. I only know that it is Pende at the door because he illuminates his own face with a torch. Ian and I quickly get ready and follow Pende through the village. He casually informs us that we have been invited to eat dinner with the chief of the village. I am so excited at this prospect that I can't contain my conversation which ejaculates out of my mouth even faster than it normally does. I'm thinking, wow this is why I travel, going to have dinner with the chief of the village, it does not get much better than this.
The village is set out in a tier system with the chief living at the top of the tier. We eventually make it to his house and are welcomed by the chief into his humble abode. His eyes are glazed and it is apparent that he has been on the kava already. Inside there are a number of people gathered, mainly Fijian but also a German couple and a Japanese guy. To one side of the room is a large, low table which is laden with food. Taking pride of place in the middle of the room is a large cauldron of kava. The chief has an extremely friendly face which is honoured by a permanent smile. He proudly points out a sharks jaw and teeth which are hanging on his wall. Pende explains to us that the chief caught the shark himself and is very proud of his kill.
We eat dinner and make polite conversation with the other travellers in the room but in the back of my mind I am eager to have a proper session on the kava. I don't have to wait long. With the formality of dinner out of the way, the chief is eager to entertain his guests with a few coconut shells of his favourite poison. We form a circle of around ten people, which includes the German's and the Japanese guy plus a select group of Fijian's including the chief and Pende. The cauldron of kava sits in the middle of us and is calling out our names. I have decided that I am going to push the limits tonight and see how far this intoxicant can take me. Let the ceremony begin.
The chief is first up, he must have done this a million times but he maintains the enthusiasm of a teenager unhinging his first bra strap. The coconut shell is dipped into the cauldron, we all clap three times and the kava is downed in one. The chief seems proud of his achievement and looks to us for encouragement. I return his smile and I feel that he can sense my eagerness to join him in his intoxicating pursuits. However, I am fifth in line and have to wait until my fellow travellers have grimaced through their doses first. I can tell by the reaction of the others that this is going to be a short night for them. I am happy about this because it means that my turn will come more quickly. My turn comes and I knock the kava back with passion of a Jack Russel on heat. As I mentioned earlier, the taste is not unpleasant although I would not choose to drink it if it did not have a mind altering effect.
Within the hour the group has diminished to four people. All the backpackers have gone to bed including Ian. I am drinking with the hardcore kava drinkers now and I am determined to keep up with them. I estimate that we've have had up to ten rounds and I am feeling mildly euphoric. My band of kava brothers and I have a strong bond by now and it's all getting a bit touchy feely. The more kava we drink, the stronger this unspoken bond becomes. It is all very strange yet all very natural. I look into the eyes of my compadre's and I am filled with a deep sense of knowing. At one point I attempt to speak and the chief raises his finger to his lips. I instantly know what he means. There is no need for words, what we are experiencing here transcends language. This is Fiji speak, a telepathic form of communication. Drinking vast amounts of kava has opened a portal to another world. By the time that I have reached this level I am in a profoundly euphoric state.
The other two Fijians eventually leave and I am left alone with the chief. I am feeling utterly wasted but in a really, really nice way. My mind is filled with the Happy Monday's lyric, "Me and the chief got slowly stoned, me and the chief got soul to soul". The song won't got way, it circulates my mind with increasing intensity. I start to hum the tune and the chief listens and nods his head to my mumblings. At least I think he does but by this point I am not sure of anything. I have had a communication overload. Suddenly I am hit by the absurdity of the whole situation and I start to laugh. This starts as an inward laugh but I cannot contain it for long. The laughter is so deep that I feel as though my head is going to explode. I grab my sides to try and control it but my efforts are futile. I am utterly consumed by my own laughter and nothing is going to stop it. The laughter is contageous and before I know it the chief is also laughing. In a truly fantastic moment, the chief and I grab hold of each other, our eyes filled with joyful tears and our bodies shaking uncontrollably. We are literally howling with laughter and unable to do anything about it. Eventually, the laughter ends and it is time for me to leave. I attempt to stand up but this is not an easy task, my equilibrium in tatters. The chief helps me to my feet the best he can and I stagger for the door. When I open the door I am both amazed and jubilant that it is light. I had not considered the consequences of staggering back through the village to my bure in the darkness. As I stumble out of the door, I turn back and look at the chief. He looks me in the eye and waves, a moment engraved into my mind forever.
I arrive back at the bure and Ian awakes. He asks me what time it is but I have no clue or concern. For the past ten hours, time has been irrelevant, I have transcended both time and language. He asks me what I have been up to but I have no answer.
A week later I ring my sister to inform her of my adventure. She listens with interest before asking me the name of the guy who sold us the trip. I tell her Pende's name and she is in disbelief that she has coincidentally been to the same place and had a similar experience. However, she did not push the limits like I did and therefore had no clue of the power of Fiji speak.
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