I have returned to
the Island and am in somewhat of a daze.
As I age traveling
across multiple time zones wreaks havoc on my weary body and it takes longer
and longer for me to recover. My journeying has been a combination of both
business and pleasure.
Business in India
- and then pleasure in Nepal.
Actually it was
business too in Nepal but dutiful business in which I take a great deal of
pleasure. I will have a short respite in Singapore before next weekend when I
will return again to both India and Nepal.
I will be visiting
Nepal with my younger brother Richard who like me – has bonded with the
Himalaya and its people. We do what little we can to create some opportunity
for some Nepalese children. We do this by opening some doors to education – something
that it important to us but is critical to the Nepalese. There are some very
bright young minds in Nepal who just need a sniff of a chance to reach their
potential.
It is always a bit
of a shock to my system returning to Singapore from India and Nepal. Things
like electricity and air conditioning and food that I so easily take for
granted I marvel at - and I often wonder what the mountain children would think
if I could miraculously transport them here.
I think they would
be shocked.
They would be
speechless.
Anyway – I arrived
back on the island very early on Friday morning having taken the overnight
flight from Delhi.
As is always the
case, I bought a bottle of Old monk rum from the Delhi airport to take back for
my deranged Danish neighbour Jens.
Any appreciator of
good Rum would be fond of Old Monk. It is famous in Bombay and throughout
Maharashtra. This is where it is distilled.
It is iconic.
My English
colleague and friend Chris describes it as like drinking Christmas pudding.
It is very
sweet.
He loves it.
It is very
powerful and has a kick like a mule.
I do not like
drinking it at all and am not much of a drinker of anything alcoholic. I am not
anti-alcohol but I just don’t much like the taste of it nor do I enjoy the
sensation of being drunk.
I don’t mind the
odd glass of red wine.
I very much like
the name “Old Monk”
I like saying it
and I like writing it.
I will therefore write
it again and I am saying the name out loud as my fingers tap on the keyboard of
my Mac.
"Old
Monk".
The name “Old
Monk” has resonance and it offers up a happy image. There are bottles available
that are moulded in the shape of an actual old monk.
They were a
special release.
They were a
dedication piece.
I have one.
It has pride of place
on my bookshelf.
Whenever I am in
Bombay I always make a trip out to the Grand Hyatt hotel.
The one in Santa
Cruz.
I travel there
specifically for one of their specialty dishes. It is a roasted leg of lamb.
The lamb is flambéed with a cup of Old Monk as it is served at your
table.
It ignites with a
‘whoosh’ and the succulent meat falls of the bone.
It is
spanking.
It is worth the
travel.
I always have a
bottle of Old Monk in my kitchen and I make a fairly wicked custard flavored
with just a nip of Old Monk.
It gives it a
kick.
You can put it on
your ice cream as well.
Old Monk is
versatile in cooking.
No pantry should
be without it.
The bottle I
bought in Delhi was for my neighbour Jens. I think I may have already mentioned
this but I often repeat myself.
I often repeat
myself.
I have described
Jens many times before but I will do so once again. Imagine if you can an
enormous and fat and hairy Viking with wild and unkempt hair and a bushy red
beard. His eyes are normally bulging and he has crooked little yellow teeth.
The Dane normally roars around the place on a Harley Davidson motorcycle
wearing a motorcycle helmet that has two small horns stuck to the top of
it.
This is
Jens.
His whole upper
body is covered in thick mats of hair and there are many prison tattoos
scattered over his torso. I have used the term 'prison tattoos' because they
are crude and non-artistic works that appear to have been done by someone other
than a trained tattoo practitioner. Someone who I strongly suspect is most
likely a convicted serial killer in a Copenhagen prison and who used the ink
from a ballpoint pen and a blunt needle.
I know good tattoo
art when I see it as my son Tom has much of it.
He is all inked
up.
After I had
unpacked and showered I thought I would pop down to Jens apartment and give him
his rum. There was no answer when I knocked on his door so I went down to the
swimming pool.
Jens often sits
poolside and he occasionally swims.
Well not swims
exactly – it is more like floundering in the water like a furry walrus.
I was correct and
he was there reclining on one of the pool lounges dressed in a bright yellow
pair of swimming trunks and a horribly stained singlet with a “Tiger Beer” logo
on it.
"Good
morning Jens"
I announced.
I was somewhat
startled when I heard the word "Modderfokker" bellowed from
behind me. I was so startled that I nearly dropped the Old Monk.
When I turned
around there was another Jens. This one was fully clothed and was holding a
half-drunk bottle of beer.
"Dat is Dag
my tween brodder skeepy modderfocker" the lunatic Dane responded.
"Ah Dag is
back"
"Ya ya" both Danes cackled.
Jens then roared
some guttural Scandinavian sentences to the other Dane who then belched and muttered
some guttural Danish back.
"For fuck
sake Jens"
I replied.
"I have
told you before that it is quite rude to be speaking Danish to me when you know
I don’t understand a word."
"Ya ya skeepy
modderfokker"
Dag responded.
Both Jens and Dag call
me 'skeepy' in reference to 'Skippy' who was a famous television kangaroo. He
calls everyone 'modderfokker'.
Jens - not Skippy.
Kangaroos do not
talk.
My automatic
spell-check function keeps changing the word "skeepy" to
"sleepy" and it is beginning to really piss me off.
Fuck.
It just did it
again.
Jens twin brother was
openly salivating at the bottle of Old Monk that I was holding. He has tasted
the Indian Rum before and like his deranged brother has an insatiable appetite
for alcohol.
I think they are
both alcoholics.
Dag said something
guttural again in Danish to his brother - which caused Jens to cackle insanely
again.
"Dis is
Dag"
Jens said to me.
"Dis is
Dag?" I
repeated.
"Ya dat is
Dag"
said Jens.
"Ya I arm
Dag" said
Dag.
The name
'Dag" was pronounced "Darg" by both brothers. 'Dis' is of course
'this', 'dat' is 'that' and 'arm' is 'am'. They are spoken thus when one is
Danish and mad and is speaking in English.
Writing the words
phonetically is sending the spell check function of my laptop into overdrive.
“I know that is Dag Jens. We have met before”
“Dat Room is for me ya ya?” enquired Jens.
“Ya ya”
I replied.
I have spelt the
word Rum as Room as this is the way that the Danes pronounce it. I also tend to
slip into the Danish “Ya ya” when speaking to the twins.
I know that “Ya”
is “Yes” but I am still unsure whether doubling it up is a Danish thing or
simply the madness of the twins.
I don’t really
care either way.
The Dane that is
Dag looked suddenly startled and his insane brother Jens appeared alarmed.
The two security
guards of the complex in which we live – the Sikhs Raj and Raj had come
marching up to the pool and stood opposite me snapped to attention and doing
elaborate salutes.
Both Raj and Raj
are aware that I have had my run-ins with Jens before and they have taken a vow
to protect me from the madman. Mr. Tan - the Building Manager of the
complex in which I live - incorrectly informed the Raj that I was someone of
importance in our Condominium - which I am not - and since they started on the
job they have been incessantly saluting me.
"At ease
guys" I
commanded.
Saying this is the
only way I can get the Raj to stop the salutes.
"Good
morning Raj and Raj" I
said.
"Good
morning Mr. Peter sir" both of the Raj's replied as they dropped their salutes.
Jens was eyeing
the security guards warily. The Raj are very big boys and Jens has called them
'modderfokkers' many times before. My relationship with Jens has been
checkered in the past - to say the least - and the Raj are well aware of this.
I have previously instructed both Raj and Raj to shoot the Dane if necessary
but they informed me that they were not permitted to carry guns in Singapore
and they could not do so.
I have written
about the Jens saga and the two Raj many times before so there is no point in
elaborating any further.
"Is
everything being alrightest Mr. Peter Sir?” a Raj asked.
"It is
fine thanks Raj" I
replied.
"This is
Jens twin brother Dag who is visiting from Denmark"
Raj and Raj nodded
politely, Dag grunted and Jens shuffled about a little nervously muttering
'modderfokker' to himself.
We all stood there
silent for a moment. The Raj were at ease but they had a protective and assured
air about them and Jens nervousness seemed to intensify. The Dane who is Dag
was looking a bit more timid too but he was still eying my bottle of rum.
"Did you
know that in the English language a dag is a term than can be used to describe
someone who is a bit nerdy and it is also a matted piece of shit that hangs
from a sheep arse?"
I said to the Danes and the Raj's.
I said this
because there was a bit of an awkward silence and also because it is
true.
In Australian
slang a dag is indeed a person who is considered to be somewhat uncool. The
term 'daglock' refers to a dung-caked lock of dried faeces tangled in the wool
that hangs from the hindquarters of a sheep.
It is most
commonly abbreviated to the word 'dag'.
The word 'faeces'
is also not being recognized by the spell-check function on my laptop computer.
That is weird because it is most definitely a real word that means excrement or
shit.
I am also very serious
about the Australian-English uses of the word dag.
If you have any
doubt look it up for yourself.
My comments
elicited some more guttural Scandinavian between the twin Danes - and the Raj
seemed to tense up a little.
"Vee are
going now skeepy modderfokker,” Jens announced.
“Our moomy is cooming today” added Dag
“Your moomy?” I enquired.
“Ya ya”
the twins nodded in unison.
I had forgotten
that Jens had told me that his mother was also coming to visit. I am very much
looking forward to the woman who begat the twins. I have a vision of her being
a wild Hells Angel looking woman and it will be very interesting to meet her.
"Please bring
her up to my apartment when she arrives Jens." I replied – then I handed the bottle of
Old Monk to his brother Dag.
I have no doubt
that the brothers will devour the entire bottle in one sitting.
They love the stuff.
“Ya ya”
Jens replied.
Dag grunted and
cast a nervous look at Raj and Raj then the two brothers did a hasty retreat.
I chatted for a
while with the security guards for a while before retreating myself to my
apartment to write all of this down.
The two Raj
saluted me again when I said goodbye and they were still saluting as I walked
to the lift lobby and went back up upstairs.
I have done a lot
of arriving and leaving in the past week and it is the leaving that I find the
saddest. When I left my friends in Kathmandu I told them I would be back in
about ten days.
I told them this
because I will.
Be back in ten
days.
The Nepali for "Good
Bye" is Bidha Pau. I always find it a sad phrase when I am
leaving.
So I like to add “Ma
Turuntai Karkanchu”.
It is
Nepali for "I will be right back"
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