I have returned to the Island after a dash back to Oz. It was cold in Sydney and very cold in Melbourne and I lit fires to stay warm. My brother also lit fires for me.
Not out in the bush or anything.
They were lit in a proper fireplace.
It is strange thinking of it now as my air conditioning is blasting and I am still dripping from my evening swim.
I have decided that I prefer hot to cold any day of the week.
I have become a tropical boy.
I have been chatting for the past couple of days to my friend Myoki San. Not the real Myoki San - who is the personal assistant of the dangerous but graceful Oyabun – but the mysterious and somewhat captivating person I have code-named Myoki San. I have code-named the person to protect their identity. I should probably have chosen an alternative code name but it seemed fitting at the time and I am unable to change it now.
Well I suppose I could if I want - but I wont.
I don’t know why.
Myoki San has been moaning about the cold weather back in Australia and she is desperate for Summer to arrive.
I don’t blame her.
Sydney is a beautiful city and was once my home but it is a Summer town.
It is a beach town.
I miss it terribly.
Whilst I was down at the pool I was hailed by my lunatic Danish neighbour Jens. He was with a tiny and very young Thai girl – as is often the case.
As I exited the lift in my apartment block and was walking to the pool he roared at me.
“Modderfocker skeepy kangaroo” was what he roared.
“Ah Jens you fat Danish fucker – have you adopted a daughter?” I enquired.
His crazy eyes darted from side to side and the little Thai lady suppressed a giggle.
“Ya ya” the crazy one replied.
Jens often says “Ya ya”.
Sometimes it means yes and sometimes it means no.
Such is the lunacy of the man that I tend not to care. I am not sure if it his madness that causes him to double up on the “yas” or perhaps it is a Danish thing.
I care not a fuck either way.
“I hope you have not defecated in the pool Jens,” I challenged.
“Ya ya” he retorted.
In this instance I was hoping that he saying “No no”.
Jens remains the primary culprit of the pooh-in-the-pool incident some eighteen months ago. I was going down for my morning swim when the floater was discovered. It was most definitely adult sized and came from a meat eater. The police were actually called, the pooh was photographed from every angle - and was taken away for what I assume was forensic examination.
I witnessed the discovery and the entire police examination with some amusement - and suggested to building management that Jens may be the shitter. Nothing came of the investigation but Jens became aware that I accused him of the crime and for a while we were mortal enemies.
I will not elaborate any further on the incident as I have already written about the matter in some length in a piece I titled “The Floater”.
The fact that the big Dane becomes very sheepish whenever I mention the incident suggests to me that he was indeed the defecator. When he is not working on the oil rigs, Jens spends much of the time in a drunken stupor poolside and I have asked the Indian Security Guards of my complex - Raj and Raj – to keep a close eye on him.
Having the pool drained of water and chemically scrubbed is a great inconvenience to me.
It really is.
“I have a bottle of duty free Belvedere Vodka for you Jens”
“Modderfokker” Jens grinned.
I quite often bring back Jens a bottle of vodka when I travel overseas. The big lug is very fond of it and will generally drink it all in one sitting. He is a raving alcoholic and even though he is quite a disturbing and disturbed individual I regard him as a sort of a pet.
I actually like him a lot.
When I go to India I will always get Jens a bottle of Old monk rum. Old monk is a particularly powerful and very sweet rum that is only able to be purchased in Maharashtra.
I do not drink it but will often use it in cooking.
It is very nice as a flambé for a barbequed leg of lamb or as a topping for vanilla ice cream but it can also be used to strip paint from metal.
I kid you not.
“Dag is cooming soon Skeepy” Jens grunted at me.
He was scratching his wild and unkempt beard when he said this and the little Thai girl was endeavouring to cuddle the large Dane. Jens is well over six feet six inches tall and the tiny Thai girl barely came up to his armpit.
Her little arms could not reach around the great girth of the great Dane.
“So is our Moomy” he added.
“Your Moomy?” I enquired.
Dag is Jens identical twin brother who has visited Singapore before. I found it impossible to tell the brothers apart and Dag seemed to be just as insane as his brother.
“Your moomy is your mother Jens?”
“That will be interesting,” I said.
It will be interesting.
I am quite curious to see the woman who begat the Danish twins.
“Let me know when your moomy arrives Jens and remind Dag that Raj and Raj have been instructed to shoot him if he misbehaves in the swimming pool.”
Jens looked a little panicked at the mention of the two Raj. He is quite fearful of them and I have indeed instructed them to shoot Jens and Dag if they look like they might shit in the pool.
For reasons I am not completely sure of, the two Raj are very protective of me. They are however unarmed security guards and are thus unable to shoot either Dane. They assure me though that they watch Jens very closely whenever he ventures to the pool.
Jens used to roar “Modderfokker” at the guards whenever he rode his Harley Davidson in or out of the complex but he has ceased this behaviour at my request.
This moderation is one of the main reasons I bring him back Belvedere Vodka and Old monk rum.
It is like training a lapdog.
Anyway – I bid Jens and his tiny Thai girlfriend farewell and I heard him muttering guttural Danish noises and the Thai girl squealing as he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. I then did a careful inspection of the pool for floaters before I did my slow laps and I am now sitting in my apartment with my air conditioning blasting.
It is a hot and steamy evening.
I am awaiting the girl Myoki San – who is not the actual Myoki San - to message me to moan again about how cold it is back in Oz.
I am hoping that one day that Myoki San who is the real Myoki San will contact me - for I have lost her telephone number and email address and have no way of contacting her. Even though she works for the dangerous Oyabun I have described in my articles “Sushi, Sashimi and Samurai” and “Oath” - I would like to one day see her again.
I will tell the Myoki San who is not the real Myoki San that it is as hot as hell here and I am happy that it is.
- For I am now a tropical boy through and through.