Category Archives: Neville Cole

On the Road…. Again Chapter 2 – Beer and Bloating Near Las Vegas

20 Sunday Feb 2011

Posted by in Neville Cole

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Story and images by Neville Cole

It’s 4:23am. I’m sitting in a booth at the Golden Nugget Buffet having waffles and chicken with Karaoke Elvis. Hung disappeared about an hour ago and is no doubt still celebrating his big win at the roulette table.

This probably goes without saying; but traveling with Hung is one surprise after another. Who else but Hung would get into a conversation with a stranger on a plane from Sydney to LA and end up buying his car. Of course, he didn’t break that news to me until we were loading up to hit the road.

“Mate, we’re not going on an iconic road trip across the good ol’ US of A in a VW Jetta,” he said with a Cheshire grin. “We’re taking Priscilla! What d’reckon, eh?” With that he dashed across the street and leaped into the passenger seat of a pretty much mint condition pink ‘59 Cadillac Convertible. Is she a brilliant yank tank road trip beast, or what? Picked her up for next to nothing from some bloke in LA! And, best of all, if we take good care of her I’ve already got a name of a bloke who will buy her off us when we are done. Viva Las Vegas! Viva! Viva! Las Vegas!

Hung certainly has a nose for a deal, I will give him that…and what he lacks in the detail department, he more than makes up for in big dreaming. The detail part I might have look into a bit more carefully in the future. You see, Hung made our Vegas travel plans and, as I discovered less than 150 miles from our original destination, he got us a screaming deal on a room at the Golden Nugget Casino. Only problem was the room he booked for us is at the Golden Nugget in Laughlin not Vegas.

Laughlin is the old, plain, three-time divorced, redneck sister city to Vegas. It has most of the gambling of Vegas with none of the glitz, fancy hotels and restaurants, entertainment, or charm of Sin City. It does have the swift flowing Colorado River nearby and, on the plus side, the sprawling, dusty open desert is never more than a five minute walk from anywhere in town. We would’ve had changed our reservation; but apparently until we can recoup some of the cost of our “investment” in Priscilla we will be living on the cheap and if you want to travel on the cheap, Laughlin is your kind of town.

We pulled into the Golden Nugget about 5pm welcomed by a glittering 20-foot neon cowboy twirling his lasso in the twilight. On second glance we noticed he was actually trying to get us to come to the Pioneer next door but we had already traveled a long way and the Golden Nugget was where we planned to stay come hell or high water.

“I reckon we oughta grab a meal before we start the serious gambling, don’t you?” Hung said, clearly itching to lay down some money. I agreed; but somewhere between registration and our room we ended up stopping at the bar to play video poker and drain a few stubbies.

“So, as long as I keep playing this game, even at a nickel a shot…I can get my drinks for free?” Hung asked Tony the bartender incredulously.

“That’s the deal, bub,” Tony replied. “Same all over town only at them other bars you don’t get Tony-class service like you do here.”

“That’s a great deal! All I have to do is win enough to stay about even and I drink for free! Bewdy!” Hung was able to win enough to stay “about even” for an hour and a half and seven or eight beers; but finally he tossed Tony a generous tip, we gathered up our luggage and headed to our room.

We made dinner reservations at the acclaimed Prime Rib Room at Don Laughlin’s Riverside Casino. This is a buffet style restaurant where a full prime rib dinner with all the trimmings can be had for $11.99. There was a line of 40 or so impatient retirees when we arrived at 7:30 (even retirees eat late when they are gambling apparently) so the hostess invited us to wait at Don’s Hideaway until a table was ready.

Don’s Hideaway was apparently designed to look like the interior of a double-wide trailer outfitted with a bar and 50s era leatherette lounge chairs. It was dark and cheap looking (which is hard to pull off) and the only other customers were a group of suspicious looking Mafia types in the corner who were clearly discussing business in muffled tones. Hung was still on a quest to find a palatable American brew so he made his way to the bar and purchased two cans of Riverside Brew which is, as he was informed, made in Minnesota especially for Don Laughlin’s Riverside Casino. It was the most wretched tasting swill I have ever attempted to down and that is saying something. Right about then I made the mistake of suggesting we get two vodka red bulls as a pick-me-up.

During dinner I stopped counting after Hung’s fourth vodka red bull. He ordered two with our salad plate, one with our vegetable and gravy surprise, and at least one more when the prime rib truck eventually made its way to our table.

“So this place is all you can eat?” Hung asked Larry the Meat Carver with a trail of cheese sauce dripping from his chin. Hung’s chin, that is, not Larry’s…that would be disgusting.

“The salad, vegetables, potatoes, the cheese sauce, the gravy, the soft serve ice-cream and the dessert are all you can eat, sir” Larry replied. “If you want more prime rib that’s another $4.”

“What a deal!” Hung bellowed. “Is this a deal, or what? You wouldn’t get a deal like this in Vegas!” The prime rib, by the way, tasted every bit as good as any $4 steak you are ever likely to try anywhere. But, as a bonus, we were in and out of the Prime Rib Room in just over an hour; staggering slightly through the door with leaden bellies but all hopped up on red bull and ready to gamble.

By the time we made it back to the Golden Nugget, Hung could not be stopped. He swirled around the floor like a tasmanian devil on crack. At every table, he introduced the two of us as Raul and Dr. Gonzo. He mentioned often that we were investigative journalists from Australia and each time punctuated the comment with “the lucky country, mate!” He also quickly lost quite a wad of cash. About 11pm I made the suggestion we wander over to the karaoke lounge play a little video poker and watch the show. Hung would have none of it. “I’ll catch you there later, Nifty!” he gargled happily. I’m heading over to give the roulette table a spin.”

The karaoke lounge at the Golden Nugget will never be mistaken for Harrah’s in Vegas; but it has something very few karaoke lounges anywhere can boast: Elvis. Elvis started off with some of his best known hits: Love Me Tender, Heartbreak Hotel, Now Or Never…but, as no one else seemed too interested in grabbing the microphone from him, we all also got the pleasure of hearing Elvis’s own renditions of Down on the Corner, Heard It Through The Grapevine, White Wedding, In The Air Tonight and perhaps most remarkable of all…(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Man. Elvis’s version didn’t sound anything like either the Bobby Womack or the Rod Stewart renditions of Aretha’s classic; but nonetheless it had a honest energy that somehow worked.

During a break in the action Elvis came to occupy the chair next to me. “That was a pretty amazing set, Elvis.” I noted as he sunk his ever expanding bulk down and gave the barkeep his gimme-the-usual sign.

“Thank you, thank you very much,” he answered right on cue.

“I can’t wait to see what you got next.”

“You a singer, man?” Elvis asked me with a little curl of his lip.

“I’ve sung a tune or two; but I’m sitting here with the King.”

“It’s Laughlin,” Elvis smiled. “Everyone gets to sing here. You oughta pick a song, man. You gotta make the scene.”

“I’ll sing,” I said, “but only if you join me.”

“I’d be glad to,” Elvis said taking a sip from his rum and cherry coke. “But let’s let some of these other good folk have a go first. Sound good to you.”

“Sound good? I will be a life highlight. I am honored.”

“I’ll be back. You pick us out a good song.” Elvis gave me a pat on the shoulder and went off to convince a few other people to get up and perform at his shindig. I was still flipping through the song book when a triumphant Hung danced over waving a fistful of dollars.

“Red 19, mate! I hit it big on Red 19. I told you I was lucky, didn’t I? We both are I tell you! We’re two lucky bastards from the lucky country! What are you doing here? You should be off winning some money too!”

“I’m trying to pick a duet for me and Elvis to sing,” I slurred, the alcohol having finally taken affect.”

“Shit, mate! I want in on that! I’ll pick a song for us, no worries.” Hung ripped the song book from my grasp and churned through it like a man possessed.

I have to hand it to Elvis, he was a good sport and totally up for anything Hung had in mind; but when the first big chord hit and Hung belted out: “First I was afraid / I was petrified / kept thinking I could never live / without you by my side…” Well, I thought for sure Elvis would split then and there; but no! He jumped right in and took over right on cue at: “and so you’re back / from outer space /I just walked in to find you here / with that sad look upon your face…” So I figured what the hell and when I came my turn I was more than ready for the challenge. “Weren’t you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye?” I cried with gusto, “you think I’d crumble? / you think I’d lay down and die? / Oh no, not I / I will survive!

Both Elvis and I stumbled along as best we could the rest of the song attempting to follow Hung’s elaborate choreography (I swear this guy must have watched Priscilla Queen of the Desert a thousand times!); but the end result was a performance for the ages – certainly nothing the karaoke lounge at the Golden Nugget Casino had ever witnessed before. Hung and I became instant celebrities and were each called upon to perform solos; which even though they did not compare to “I Will Survive” were warmly received.

“Did you tell Elvis about Priscilla?” Hung asked later back at the bar.

“No,” I totally forgot,” I replied.

“Priscilla? What about Priscilla.” Elvis mumbled.

“She’s our pink 59 Caddy that we are cruising in, totally cherry.” Hung slapped Elvis so hard on the back that he almost toppled out of his chair. “You want to come see it? We oughta go for a cruise through town!”

Elvis was clearly tempted. “Well, we are wrapping up here for the night… Tell you what, as long as you let me drive, I’m in.”

“We sure as hell aren’t driving?” Hung laughed. “We’re both pissed as newts!”

“I don’t know what that means,” Elvis smiled. “But both of you are too drunk to drive. Besides, I know exactly where we should go!”

1959 Cadillac Priscilla

There is nothing quite like the thrill of being chauffeured around by the King while listening to his greatest hits as we cruise through the glittering neon of a wild gambling town and down along dappled sheen of the Colorado river, out under a desert moon into the stark emptiness of the Nevadan wilderness in a pink 59 Cadillac convertible; but, when warm glow of Laughlin was gone, and Elvis pulled into an abandoned rest stop down by the river my thoughts began to darken. “I know you boys like to sing,” Elvis grinned, “but are you up for some real fun?”

“Sure!” said Hung eagerly and without a hint of suspicion. “What’s the plan?”

Elvis opened his briefcase and pulled out a gleaming Colt 45.

“I’m thinking, a little target shooting in the moonlight.”

“Ace!” said Hung as he clamored out of the back seat. “Yeehaw! Let’s go cowboy!”

“So wait,” I asked. “We’re too drunk to drive but not too drunk to shoot?”

“Damn son,” Elvis laughed. “Who ever heard of being too drunk to shoot?” Elvis extracted a paper target from his briefcase, pinned it up on a cactus and for the next hour or so we each took turns blasting holes in it, or at least attempting to… I once made contact with a no littering sign but nothing I actually shot at seemed to get hit. Hung wasn’t fussed about hitting anything either, he was enjoying the sound of the gunfire way too much to care about things like that. He was all ooohs and aahhs like he was watching a fireworks display in his mind. Elvis on the other hand was dead center of the target with almost every shot. “I like to come out here after a gig,” Elvis almost whispered at one point. “Helps me relax. Thanks for joining me, gentlemen.” He looked up at us and I am pretty sure I saw a tear in his eye; but our buzz almost gone, so we all agreed to make our way back to town and keep gambling.

Elvis drove us to the brand new Harrah’s Laughlin because, as he said, that’s where the best late night action could be found. He was right. It was by now 2am but the joint was jumping. “You fellas play craps? Elvis asked making a beeline for the craps table. We both admitted we had no idea how the game worked, but Elvis said it really didn’t matter. “Just follow my lead,” he said. “Bet what I bet when I bet and you’ll do just fine.”

We followed Elvis every step of the way and I somehow our funds did grow even though I had no idea how or why. In fact, when it was my turn to toss the dice we started to do very well indeed. Hung was, for the third or fourth time in one evening, having the time of his life; especially when he was again able to confirm drinks were without a doubt absolutely free to anyone playing craps. “Ok, buddy,” Elvis said suddenly grabbing my arm after a long streak of good rolling. “This is it! Here we go. We need a seven right now and we can all go home happy.”

As soon as he spoke I gripped the dice a little more tightly. Until now, I hadn’t had a goal in mind. I was just rolling. Now the number seven was burning my brain. Elvis was counting on me. Hung…well, actually Hung didn’t seem to be paying much attention; but I knew another big win would cap off his evening and maybe soon we could actually head back to our room and get some sleep. I suddenly remembered that in all the movies the guy throwing the dice always had some woman blow on his dice for good luck so with all the savoir faire I could muster I turned to the tall pretty blonde to my right.

“Would you blow on these for good luck?” I asked in my best James Bond.

“My pleasure,” she replied licking her lips in anticipation.

The moment was so perfect. There I stood with my dice freshly blown and the whole excited table looking on. Strangers were moving in closerm anxious to join the throng and be a part of history. Elvis and Hung were brimming with confidence; but I was frozen with fear. Then that wonderful blond leaned forward, squeezed my palm and whispered in my ear: “Just let it roll.”

And so I did…and everything went into slow motion. I could clearly see each face on both dies as they bounced and spun. First a 2, then a 5, then 4, 6, 1 in quick succession…both little red cubes turning and flipping then bouncing almost simultaneously off the back wall. I could see everyone was cheering but I couldn’t hear a thing. Then I saw the first die stop moments before the first…a five! Then the second die started to take its last turn and I could see the two about to fall! Then it bobbled slightly just once and fell to a dead stop…on six.

“Eleven,” the croupier called and even he seemed disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” the blonde said. “I guess I’m not good luck for you after all.” And with that she made a quick turn and was gone.

“That was great, mate!” Hung said with genuine enthusiasm. “What a run. Cheer up, Nifty! We’re all still ahead! Who wants to try their hand at poker?”

“I think I’ll head back to the Golden Nugget, Hung.” I said quietly. “I feel like packing it in for the night.”

“I’ll drive you back,” Elvis said gathering his chips. “Let’s cash these in a go get some breakfast.

“Suit yourself, boys. I’m going to hang here for a while. Did either of you see where that pretty blonde went off to? Hold on! I think I see her! See ya, fellas! Don’t wait up for me.” And with that, the great vortex of energy known as Hung leapt once more into the fray.

“One seven,” I muttered on the way back through town. “I couldn’t I roll just one more bloody seven.”

“Forget about it, pardner,” Elvis said warmly. Then he turned and looked me straight in the eye. “In this life if you can manage to stay just about even…well, you’re already a winner. And look at us tonight! We came out ahead…maybe not by a lot…but ahead. And in Laughlin, Nevada if you can say that…well, you my friend are a big winner. Now, buck up and let’s go get us some waffles and chicken.”

NEXT UP: SIDEWAYS TO NAPA

Pistol Palin’s AMERICA

29 Saturday Jan 2011

Posted by in Neville Cole, Politics in the Pig's Arms

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The Pig’s Arms welcomes our new North American Correspondent

Miss Pistol Palin

Hiya everyone! I’m Pistol Palin from Alaska and I’m proud as punch to be the new official North America correspondent for the The Pig’s Arms (I can’t wait to try one of them famous pink drinks)

Now before you even go ahead and ask “no” I’m not related to the ex-governor of Alaska and all-round super woman, Sarah Palin. People up here would laugh at that because it’s a well known fact that Palin is a real common name in Alaska, as common as Smith is in the lower 48, or Chong is in China, or Hitler is in Germany. No, seriously doesn’t it make you sad to think that there are probably thousands of little boys in Germany who are nothing like Obama at all but still get teased every day just because of their name!

Anyway, I know that people all over the world look up to Sarah Palin and I’m not saying I don’t (of course I do, duh) but still my bestest hero in the whole world is my own mom, Sara! She taught me everything I know! She showed me how to shoot and skin a moose, how to make beaver pie and caribou stew, how to drive a dog sled team and how to keep my truck running all winter. Love you mommy! But Pistol Palin’s America is about more than the great state of Alaska because you see in my capacity as the National spokesperson for the Abstinence Now and Forever Foundation I’ve had the opportunity to travel all over and see lots of things and meet lots of Tea Party Patriots.

There’s just so much that I want to share. About things that can make America great again. About things that can fix the whole world and that’s my hope. My hope is that soon we won’t be just talking about how great is it to live in Pistol Palin’s America we’ll be talking how amazing is Pistol Palin’s World!

Boo too Obamacare!

It is a super great day in My America! The brave super smart godfearing Republicans in the senate house (yay!) have unanimousely repealed the job-destroying Obamacare Health (so called) Plan. (boo!)

Obama (double boo) and his communist croneys wont be able to give free doctor care to lazy welfare mothers and illegal Mexicans and make good Americans like me pay for hundreds of millions of abortions a year and peddle free drugs to drug addicts. Also, no old grannys and pappies will have to go before a death panel and have some high priced Washington insider lawyer decide weather they should die or not.

Take that Nancy Pelosi! (boo times infinity) Go back to Soviet Russia where you belong! I am sooooo glad you got fired and that nice Mr Boehner got your old job. He is so much more better a speaker than you it’s not even funny. Anyone can tell how much he cares about America because he cries about it all the time. Have you ever cried about America, Nancy Pelosi? Only about their not being enough taxes I’m sure! The only time Nancy Pelosi cries is when she has to look at herself in the mirror (because she’s so ugly).

Speaking of ugly…I’ll tell you what is ugly with a capital U and 2 double Gs…the job-destroying spending binge Obama has been on for the last two and a bit years! All it has done is leave America with nothing but the most historic unemployment and the most hugest debt in the history of the world and he wasn’t even born in this country. That’s what you all get for voting in an African as president! Go back to Kenya Obama! (boo boo boo)

But now for some of the good news I promised America. Guess what? I’m going to be on another TV show! This ones called “Dancing With The Tea Party Patriots!” I’m going to be paired with Brain Darling (can you imagine – how dreamy is that?) but I am sure to face a BIG challenge from Christine O’Donnell who has only been paired with Tea Party co-founder and all round heartthrob Mark Meckler (as if she wasn’t popular enough already!). The awesome Sarah Palin is going to be one of the judges but even though we are both from Alaska and have the same last name even she might have to vote for the O’Donnell/Meckler team. After all, wasn’t it O’Donnell who proved that teaching sex education in schools was just plain and simply wrong? She pointed out that if kids get comfortable talking about personal yucky things to there teachers, “then suddenly talking to that stranger with candy on the playground is not so creepy.” I know I never talked to anyone about how to do sex and I did just fine! Little Colt is doing great by the way…thanks for asking! I saw him just last week when I was back home during a break from my “Abstinence Now and Forever” speaking tour.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

Here’s something my mom used tell me all the time before family shooting time. She’d say: The only thing that can protect us from bad people with guns is good people with more guns! I don’t know that I ever heard a more smarter thing in my whole life.

Until next time…See ya 4 now!

Pistol

Stay Loud and Proud America!

EDITORS COMMENT

As noted by the author herself, Pistol Palin should NEVER be confused with Bristol the daughter or Sarah Palin and world’s most famous teen mother who has since become an abstinence speaker. It is important to note that for one thing Bristol is NOT scheduled to appear on Dancing With The Tea Party Patriots (although she did do quite well on Dancing With the Stars)

OTHER IMPORTANT NOTES:
Nancy Pelosi is the ex-speaker of the house. She was the driving force behind getting Obama’s Health Care plan through the house and senate. She is currently the most hated woman in America…having recently wrestled the crown away from Hillary Clinton.

John Boehner in the new Speaker of the House. He is solidily right of right, has a bright orange tan and has broken down and cried numerous times on TV since becoming speaker – especially when discussing America, the flag, puppies or brave fighting men overseas.

Christine O’Donnell nearly won the Delaware Senate Seat even though Delaware is a traditionally liberal state and O’Donnell is an ultra-right-winger who used to be a witch but who now rallies Tea Partiers against sex-education (she says, for instance, that maturbation is adultery). She also is a staunch creationist; all in all you’re typical Tea Party Patriot.

Brian Darling is a brilliant Tea Party strategist. Enough said.

Mark Meckler is the co-founder of the Tea Party (the most powerful political force outside the NRA since the Moral Majority)
The Tea Party is against any taxes or the government doing anything about anything ever – except for banning abortion, going to war, putting prayer in schools, and, of course, making guns freely available to any god fearing American. Tea Partiers believe that the US Constitution is a sacred document passed down from Jesus to the founding fathers. They also believe that the 2nd Ammendment – the right to bear arms – is the only really important part to worry about. Tea Party is, of course, all in favor of limitless military spending.

Tea Party Theme Song is: War! What is it good for? Huh! Absolutely America!

On The Road…Again

25 Tuesday Jan 2011

Posted by in Neville Cole

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By Neville Cole – former Pig’s Arms North American Correspondent

Boop BOOP boop, boop BOOP boop, boop BOOP boop…

The insistent tones of Skype beckoned me with all the urgency my Dell’s tiny speakers could muster. For three desperate weeks I had ignored its daily implorations but the devilish gravatar of The Pig’s Arms creator, founder and editor-in-chief, Mike Jones, virtually demanded my immediate attention. Trembling slightly, I reached out and clicked “answer with video” which prompted the gravatar to morph into the terrifying digital visage of Mr. Jones himself.

“So you’re alive after all, you old bastard!” Mike bellowed with all the warmth of a merchant marine. “I will cancel the obit I was just about to post.”

“I’m sorry, Mike,” I know I am a little behind on my submissions.”

“A little behind?” Mike guffawed. “I suppose J-Lo is a little behind too? I suppose Kim Kardashian is a little behind? I suppose Jayne Mansfield was a little behind as well!”

I’ve learned when Mike Jones gets on a pun roll it’s best to let him burn himself out, so I sat quietly by and waited which proved to be the right choice because he ended up stopping at three behinds and moving on to his main point.

“You haven’t sent me anything in months!  One day you are all gung ho to join the Movember team and next…you fall off the planet.”

“The Mo looks great, by the way, Mike!”

“Don’t interrupt…” Mike reached up with his right hand to smooth down his brimming moustache. “But thanks, the first mate isn’t too fond of it; but…I think it looks, you know…distinguished. Anyway, that’s beside the point! Do I have to remind you that you are The Pig’s Arms one-and-only official North American correspondent? We are the finest subscription-free online virtual pub and readery in the world and we currently have zero representation from the largest English proficient continent on the planet? What on earth are we paying you for?”

“You don’t actually pay me, Mike,” I noted.

“Now you sound like Hung,” Mike snapped. “Is that what this is all about? A little scratch? You think by withholding submissions you can strong arm me, eh?”

“No, I…”

“Now you listen, Neville and you listen good; because I am only going to offer this once!”

Mike paused momentarily. It’s always difficult to interpret Mike’s intentions exactly as he rarely appears online without his customary guise which includes a pair of highly reflective goggles and a horned cap made of tin foil; but I took the gap in the conversation an invitation to reply.

“I’m listening…”

“First off,” Mike hollered, “you are no longer The Pig’s official North American correspondent. You clearly have no grasp of basic journalism. As a result, this morning I conducted a successful Google search and signed an up-and-coming online reporter who is delighted for the chance to work for t-shirts and pink drink coupons. Her name is Bristol Palin and I am sure her submissions will be timely and…well, timely. ”

“Is that the offer?” I asked.

“No you damn fool,” Mike chirped, “did that sound in any fashion like an offer?”

“Well, it’s just you said I should listen carefully because you were going to make me an offer.”

“I was setting context.”

“I see,” I said, even though in truth, I didn’t.

“It seems your little stories…you know, the ones you used to write?” By now Mike’s voice was quite literally dripping with sarcasm. He had to wipe back driblets off his chin before he could continue. “Anyway, it seems you have piqued the interest an anonymous but substantial fan. He, or she, is willing to offer The Pig’s a hefty sponsorship if we can guarantee regular weekly postings from you.”

“I don’t know, Mike…” I stammered slightly. “I’ve been really busy lately and frankly I’ve been running low on story ideas as well.”

“Hear me out. I’m not done.” Mike cut me off as if the call was costing him a fortune. “I have a plan. I figured you needed a little inspiration. I want you to return to your roots. I want you to do what you do best. I want to send you out on the road…again!”

“You want to send me…” I asked suspiciously.

“All expenses paid,” Mike stammered slightly “within reason, of course.”

“Of course,” I noted.

“The people like it when you rough it a bit,” he added.

“I could make that part up.”

“No,” Mike said with increased emphasis. “It’s better for the stories if that part is real. So…are you interested?”

I have to admit I was interested but more than that I was suspicions.

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch.”

“There’s always a catch, Mike.”

“I’m telling you there’s no catch. I’ve made all the arrangements. Just say the word and I’ll have funds forwarded to you and you can be on your way.”

I was in desperate need of a break from the office and well overdue for a long holiday. I was also pretty certain I could at least get a month off and all in all an all expenses paid trip was a tempting offer indeed. Besides, if I did things right I could set myself up for a dream career. Most my favorite writers – Ernest Hemingway, Somerset Maugham, Spike Milligan, Hunter S Thompson, S.J. Perelman, Bruce Chatwin, Jack Kerouac – did their best work on the road…”

“I hate to interrupt your obvious deep thoughts,” Mike interrupted. “But I need your answer. We have to get this show on the road one way or another.”

“All right, Mike. I’ll do it.” I said without further deliberation. “I’ll just have to make some arrangements at work and put together a plan. I should be ready to head off in a few weeks.”

“A few weeks!” Mike blasted. “We can’t wait that long? We need you out there! Can’t you see? People are clamoring to live vicariously through your adventures! The world needs you on the road now!”

“But I haven’t even had a chance to think about where to go? I need to book flights, find hotels.”

“Just get in a car and drive. This is on the road not in the air! Sure, you might eventually need to take a flight or catch a train or hop on a boat…but that’s not how true adventures start! Don’t over-think this, man…that will be the death of you. Get out there and live in the moment! Then be sure to write all those moments down take a few snapshots and send it all to me post haste!” With that Mike was done with the conversation except for one final parting shot. “I’ll look for the first installment one week from today! Bon voyage!”

The moment Mike hung up my doorbell rung. I rose in a daze, shuffled to the front door and opened it. I was greeted by a man about my age and height, with the eyebrows of Groucho Marx, the haircut of Mo Howard and dressed in the traditional green and gold of the Australian national cricket team.

“G’day Nifty!” he chirped inviting himself in before I asked. “Did Mike chat with you yet?” As the man barged past me I finally recognized him as The Pig’s infamous intergalactic cricket correspondent, Hung One On.

“Hung?” I stammered with little certainty.

“Yeah, of course…who were you expecting?”

“Not you, that’s for sure. What are you doing here?”

“That depends. Did you talk to Mike yet?” Hung asked dropping his duffel in the middle of the hall and making his way directly to the fridge.

“I just got off a call with him,” I answered following the tornado on two legs to the kitchen.

“You bewdy,” Hung laughed. “Then this calls for a celebration! You got any beer?” he asked while ripping open the fridge. “Miller Lite? That don’t sound too good. That all you got?”

“Yeah, ‘fraid so,” I replied already picking up his accent.

“Well, here’s to “On The Road with Hung.” Hung passed me a bottle and took a long gulp of his own. “Strewth! Is this beer or chilled dishwater?”

“On The Road with Hung?” I repeated slowly.

“We can work out the name later, no worries.” Hung took another long gulp draining the remainder of the bottle and instinctively reaching for another. “I just figured you’re writing the stuff so your name is like, a given, you know? Don’t really need it in the title. But, that’s up to you, really. You are writing this stuff, right? You did take Mike’s offer.”

“I took the offer,” I countered “but I didn’t know about…”

“Oh, thank Christ for that,” Hung blurted. “You had me worried there for a minute. Mike’s backup plan was that I would go off alone and pretend to be you. I didn’t like that idea one bit.” Hung smiled warmly and gripped me by the shoulder with his non-drinking hand. ”We’re gonna make a great team you and I… We’ll  be like Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise… Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo… and Bob Hope and Bing Crosby.”

“Mike didn’t mention any back up plan…”

“I didn’t like it either. No fear. You write too many bloody words. But don’t you worry, I’ll take care of everything. I’ll manage the funds, make the bookings, keep things rolling…  Maybe from time to time I’ll send in a few of my own observations; not to upstage you or nothing! Don’t worry, you won’t have to do a thing but watch and write. We’re gonna make a top team….and guess what I’ve already figured out the perfect first destination for us! Vegas, baby!”

NEXT UP: BEER AND BLOATING NEAR LAS VEGAS

Pig’s Psalm 23 – the Cole-ridge Rondo

09 Sunday Jan 2011

Posted by in Lehan Winifred Ramsay, Neville Cole, Pig Psalms

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Watering Hole by Lehan Winifred Ramsay

By Neville Cole

THE PIG’S ARMS IS MY WATERING HOLE

The Pig’s Arms is my watering hole,
I shall not thirst;
Emmjay makes me submit green manuscripts.
Shoe leads me beyond sweet poetry;
Warrigal restores my soul.
Atamou leads me in paths of classical righteousness
for Theseustoo, Gerard and Helvi’s name’s sake.

Yea, though I travel through the valleys
of Nairobi and through space, time and alternate realities,
I fear no submission;
for Nev is with me;
Hung’s wit and Viv’s recipes, they comfort me.

Surely Voice, Big M, Lehan, Astages, Gregor and Julian shall follow me
all the days of my life;
and I shall dwell in the house of the
famous pink drinks and Trotter’s ale forever.

From Here to Nairobi 9 – Guess Who’s Coming for Dinner

30 Saturday Oct 2010

Posted by in Neville Cole

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The Chief and I

By Neville Cole

I’m staring at Christo. Christo is staring at me. We are spending a long time staring. That shit Christo gave me was stra-wrong! I am buzzed. I am brazen. I am going to find out what is up with this guy once and for all. Only problem is…Christo has beaten me to the punch.

“You don’t like me, do you, my friend?” he asks with more than a hint of a smile.

“I don’t even know you…my friend…” I reply, while sporting a Woody Allen smirk.

“The easiest thing in the world is to not like someone you don’t know,” Christo notes and I have to admit it is a pretty profound reply.

“Indeed” I add in an outrageously fake British accent.

“So,” he says. “What is the problem, exactly? Is all this just because I won’t tell you the name my parents called me? You can call me anything you want, you know. I don’t mind. I’ll answer to it all.”

“What’s your story?” I suddenly blurt out, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“I told you my story the first night we met, my friend.”

“Yeah, I remember,” I say defiantly. “But see, the problem is, at the time I didn’t believe you…and now, I really don’t believe you. You are up to something. Thanks for the help with the hippo, by the way. That bloody thing was pretty pissed off wasn’t it?” I am clearly struggling to maintain a single line of thought and Christo, equally clearly, has noticed. He sits back, smiling benevolently; that is, until I move the discussion in a direction he isn’t willing to go.

“So what was your deal in Entebbe, anyway? Why the disappearing act?”

“Let’s just say,” Christo says, shifting slightly in his seat, “I’m not the passport and visa type and leave it at that.”

“Fine by me,” I say smugly. “No skin off my nose,” I add. “I was… just curious. What were we talking about again?”

Christo laughs. I laugh. I can’t stop laughing. I am laughing so hard it is difficult to catch a breath. Cristo stands up and leans out over the balcony. He calls out in Swahili to a waiter standing down by the pool. The man turns and calls back. They carry on a short conversation at during which I am able to make out the last two words: Asante sana or thank you very much.

“What was that all about?” I ask, finally suppressing my laugh attack.

“I’ve made dinner plans for us,” Christo replies.

“I was planning to get some room service and pass out pretty soon.”

“What? Room service? When there’s a real live party just down the street? Are you crazy? Come on, man? You’re in Africa. Where’s you sense of adventure?”

At that Christo springs like a wild cat from the patio to the branch of study-looking tree a few feet from us. Then, in one fluid motion he reaches down, grab the branch with his hands and slips lightly down to solid ground. I applaud generously and mime holding up a scorecard: “9.2 from the Australian judge.”

“Come on, Neville,” he laughs “Stop being such a damned colonial and come see the real Africa. I promise you won’t regret it.”

“Alright,” I finally relent, “but I’m going to use the door if you don’t mind.”

“Fine by me, Christo hoots; “but don’t blame me if you get gored by a hippo going back that way!”

Despite his warning, I am not stoned enough to even consider making the leap from the balcony and instead choose to quietly and quickly take a dash through the hippo fields.

Before I have time to reconsider my evening plans, Christo and I have left the hotel premises and are heading down a dark, muddy path into the noisy jungle of dusk. I realize I am in for the evening now because there is no way I am wandering back this way in the middle of the night alone. Many a midnight wanderer in East Africa ends up as lion food. Of course, here in Uganda, Idi Amin’s troops slaughtered virtually every lion years ago so I assume we are reasonably safe for now.

“So, what kind of party is this exactly?” I ask as we march along in file.”

“What day is it today?” Christo asks in return.

“Ah…Wednesday,” I answer without much certainty.

“Oh, good. Then you are going to see what a Wednesday party is like. By the way, do you have a few shillings we can toss in the kitty? You cannot turn up at an African party empty-handed.”

At the edge of some pretty dense jungle we come across a small clearing with a small stage at the far end and a large cooking fire by the entrance. There are four poles, strung with lights at each corner of the clearing. The lights, high up the poles, do little more than create an eerie glow while the cooking fire manages to throw a few flickering shadows across the ground and up into the surrounding trees.

I make my presence known right away by tripping over dinner. A still bloody, skinned goat lays only a few steps inside the entrance; but apparently I am the only person in attendance who didn’t expect it to be there. In my defense, I was somewhat distracted by the gutted impala hanging from a rack nearby and the sight of impala stew already bubbling in the cooking pot.

Christo steps surely around the goat carcass and walks immediately up to a wrinkled old man standing by a couple of dozen crates of beer. Christo talks to the old man for a minute or two, occasionally gesturing in my direction, then I see him hand the old man my shillings. After that the old man walks over to a strikingly tall man carrying a staff and wearing in a large animal skin cape. The old man points first to Christo and them to me. The man in the cape nods his head and the old man and waves to Christo. Christo, in turn, gestures to me to come join them.

“Neville,” he says happily, “this is the Chief. I explained to him how far you have travelled to be here tonight and offered him your gift. He wants us to enjoy ourselves and be guests at his party.”

“Asante,” I say to the Chief. “Asante sana.”

The Chief says something to Chriso. I can only make out the word Karibu, welcome.

“He says you are most welcome. He also says that he is sorry he did not know you were coming tonight from so far away or he would have made some special plans.”

I immediately blurt out the only other Swahili I know: “Hakuna matata!”

As soon as that wonderful phrase leaves my lips I wonder if it is appropriate to say “no worries” to a tribal chief; but before I can even complete my thought the Chief doubles over with laughter and most of the gathered crowd laughs and chatters as well.

“The chief says you are welcome in his village any time of the day or night,” Christo says smiling. “I guess you won him over you damn Aussie. What is it with you people? Does anyone in this world not love Australians?”

NEXT UP: PARTY: UGANDA STYLE

Diary of a Chilean Miner

17 Sunday Oct 2010

Posted by in Neville Cole

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Intrepid Pig's Arm's foreign correspondent Neville Cole travelled to Chile to secure this amazing first hand account of a miner's ordeal

Translated by Neville Cole

Rescued Chilean miner, Jaime Esteban, is the first of the trapped miners to release his account of the harrowing 69 days he and his 32 fellow miners spent underground. Here are some excerpts he read to me from his personal diary.

Day 1:          It appears we have been cut off from the outside world. ¡Dios mio! I can’t help but wonder if it is all my fault. I did not make a sacrifice to el Diablo this morning. Every day since I was a small boy I have poured some pisco at el Diablo’s feet before descending into the mine; but this morning I was so hung over I kept all of that delicious brandy for myself. Some hair of the dog, as they say. I wonder if I should tell my 32 mine brothers of my terrible mistake? At the moment most of them are convinced it is Paco’s fault and besides it is true he is always leaving the oil lamps burning in the dynamite store room. I think it is probably best to keep my secret to myself, just in case.

Day 2:          We have all smoked nearly all our cigarettes already. I hope we are rescued soon. I am not sure how long we will all last without nicotine. Paco is very drunk and trying to convince everyone we should remove our clothes and huddle together to keep warm. I had to remind him several times it is 37 degrees Celsius down here to which he eventually replied it was clearly too hot to wear clothes and ever since he has been walking around taking an extended air bath. I am glad it is very dark down here.

Day 3:          Paco tried to get all of us to make a pact that should any of us die we would agree to allow our fellow mine brothers divide up our remains and eat them. Further more he wanted us to agree to eat someone at random should our food supplies get dangerously low. We all voted that it was way too early to be discussing such extreme measures.

Day 4:          Jorge caught Paco red-handed today. He was breaking into our food locker. He claimed he was only checking to see if supplies were dangerously low yet. He seems determine to eat one of us.

Day 5:          It is becoming clear that we will be stuck in this mine for a very long time. Perhaps forever. It is difficult to keep track of time as we never see sunlight and none of us wears a watch that keeps good time. We have decided to etch a calendar on the wall and keep track of the passing days by monitoring our bowel movements.

Day 6:          It was Paco’s turn to make dinner tonight. Now, we all have the shits. Alejandro yelled at him that he must always wash his hands before cooking and that he may never again cook in the nude.

Day 7?:         Silvestro handed out handfuls of coca leaves to all yesterday claiming that it would cure our intestinal issues. It hasn’t. None of us can sleep now. Pablo decided to start training for the Santiago Marathon and went for a run through the mine shafts. He was gone for hours, I think. Mario announced he was going to write an opera about our experiences and now will not stop singing his every thought out loud. For the first time since the collapse Paco is not the most annoying person in the mine.
Day ??                    Haven’t written in at least a few days. Morale is at an all time low. There are no cigarettes, alcohol or coca leaves left but at least the shitting has slowed. We are all missing our loved ones terribly. I think about mi madre and how empty her heart must be without her Jaime by her side. I think of my beautiful wife, mother of my children and oh, how I worry for my dear five (or is it six?) little ones. I pray they will not have to suffer long without their father’s guidance and love. I also find I think most often about my lover, Maria and her fine round ass as smooth and firm as a fattened pig’s.

Day 32:        The calendar we etched on the mine wall says today is Day 32 but I am not sure it has really been that long. During our long battle with diarrhea, I am convinced several extra days were added by mistake. I also have a sneaking suspicion that Paco has been adding days when no one is looking in a feeble attempt to convince us to start eating each other.

Day Whatever: I have given up trying to keep track of passing days. I no longer care as I am finally convinced that I will die in this godforsaken hellhole. Pablo on the other hand is now running seven-and-a-half minute splits and completes 15 miles a day on average. His only concern now is adapting to the altitude in Santiago. He also wonders if he will be able to run in the daytime without his mine helmet on.

Day 30:        We have finally made contact with the rescuers and now know for certain that we have been trapped in the mine for 30 days. We cheered with delight at the thought that we will soon be free. Paco cried out for a group hug and we all joined in happily. We did draw the line at a group nude cuddle session however.

Day 31:        We asked today how long it would be before we could see our loved ones and breathe fresh, pure Chilean air and bask in the warm, healing Chilean sun. The rescue team sent word that they would get right back to us about that.

Day 32:        Today I woke to find Paco spooning me from behind and worse he seemed to be enjoying it. I pushed him away but before I could confront him he firmly cautioned me about the terrible dangers of waking a sleepwalker. He told me the next time he happened by in a somnambulant state that it was imperative I let him finish. He wandered off before I had a chance to find out what the hell he was talking about.

Day 33:        Still no word from the rescue team about when we should expect our release. Paco again tried to convince us that the world would forgive a little cannibalism as long as we all had the story straight.

Day 39:        Just received confirmation that we may be stuck here for another month. Pablo is furious. He says if we wait that long it will ruin his whole training regimen and there is no way he can be ready for the marathon now.

Day 40:        Pablo is in a terrible funk. Mario offered to run with him today but Pablo just whispered “What’s the point? What’s the point of any of this? If I can’t run in the marathon what’s the point of getting out of here at all?”

Day 50:        Today, our 50th day underground was also my 50th birthday. Juan fashioned a cake for me out of dirt and dried prunes. It was beautiful and I was very touched when all my brothers sang ¡Feliz cumpleaños!; but then the celebration was dimmed when we realized no one could eat even a single slice as all our teeth have fallen out. Why didn’t even one of us pack a tooth brush?

Day 60:        It has been confirmed! We will all be free very soon! We are so happy today. Well, except Paco, who actually seems to enjoy living naked in a hot dark hole surrounded by men.

Day 69:        I am to next in line to rise to the surface. I cannot believe this wondrous day has arrived. Very soon I will finally see my loved ones. I am so glad Maria is married. She will at least have the sense not to confront my mother and wife in front of such a big crowd of people. That’s all I need to deal with after 69 days down here. We have heard the President himself is up above to greet us. We have heard that TV cameras are recording every moment and that millions around the world are waiting to greet us with tears of joy. Everyone has been hugging and crying and singing praises. We even convinced Paco to put his clothes back on. He seems to have pulled himself together but keeps pacing back and forth, laughing awkwardly and saying loudly to anyone within earshot: “Hey, what happens down the mine stays down the mine. Right guys? Am I right? I’m right, right?”

Notes from the Underbelly #1 Edward Albee

22 Thursday Jul 2010

Posted by in Neville Cole

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Master Playwright Edward Albee

By Neville Cole

Years ago, as an impressionable teen, I went to a lecture given by Edward Albee. He told a story that I have always remembered but probably never fully understood.

Albee talked about his early days in Greenwich Village living the life of a starving poet and “not a very good one.” About how he “basically tried everything else and writing plays was the only thing I hadn’t tried, so I did that.” Later he admitted he came to that decision with a little help. He said went to a writer’s retreat and Thornton Wilder was there. Albee also said he always travelled with a trunk containing everything he’d written because “you never know…” So, when he met Wilder, he handed him all of his poems to read.

The next day Wilder came up to him and said: “Albee, I want to get drunk with you.” The two of them sat down by a nearby lake and drank bourbon while Wilder critiqued every one of Albee’s poems. After Wilder finished discussing each poem, he set it afloat on the lake. By the time he finished, Albee said, “there was a substantial dent in the bourbon and a good bit of the lake was covered with my poems.” Wilder then said to him, “Albee, I’ve read every one of your poems.” “I can see that,” Albee replied, “They’re all out there on the lake.” Then Wilder said: “Albee, have you ever considered being a playwright?”

After the lecture I went up to Albee and told him I wished I had one of my plays to hand him to critique. Albee said “a writer should always carry his work with him because…you just never know.” (Note: This was, of course, in the days before “I’ll send you an email”)

Anyway, my youthful self became immediately convinced that Albee was sending me a message. One of America’s greatest living playwrights was telling me I had a chance. All I had to do was be ready for my Wilder moment. I began to imagine that every small moment of my life could be transformed into art. I hoarded every scrap and scribble. Every item I gathered, every person I met, every experience I had was rich with dramatic possibility. I could turn any simple conversation into a work of comedic genius. I could turn my journals into memoirs. I imagined that one day critics and scholars would pour through my early works and find keys to my greatness.
It took me six years of struggle to finally realize I had just enough talent to be dangerous. I earned just enough praise, had just enough success to keep pushing on despite all the evidence stacked against me. I wandered aimless as a proverbial cloud through the theatrical underbelly gathering brushes with greatness, witnessing minor miracles and major absurdities, even garnering moments of supreme satisfaction; but all in all my bohemian experiment would probably have to be described as an abject failure…like Albee’s poems I was just another piece of flotsam slowly sinking to the murky depths of obscurity.

Looking back it would have saved me a lot of heartache if Albee just looked me in the eye and said: “Neville, have you ever thought of getting into educational video?” But, if I could take another crack at it – back then, with no family to support, no mortgage to pay – I most definitely would. No doubt about it. And who knows? Maybe this time I’d make it!

From Here to Nairobi Chapter 8 – the Hippos are Restless

12 Monday Jul 2010

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Murchison Falls

By Neville Cole

Michel’s plan is shoot the Murchison Falls segment without the girls and have them meet us for the Gorilla trekking segment at the Impenetrable Forest in three days. Although clearly frustrated, Michel is determined that the documentary must go on and calls an emergency planning meeting upon our arrival at Paraa Lodge. Michel has repeated several times to everyone in earshot that if Jean and John are not at the Black Pearl Lodge by the time we arrive, he will personally cut off their testicles with a rusted machete.

Christo, as is his fashion, disappears immediately upon landing and I, in my own inimitable style, have found myself comfortable spot under the verandah out by the bar. The only other guest in the vicinity is an older gentleman drinking a gin and tonic. He is dressed in a white suit, white shirt, white wing-tip shoes, is wearing a white wide-brimmed hat, has a full white beard and is smoking from, of all things an ivory-handled pipe.

“You with that froggy film crew, are you?” he says in the drippingly precise, public school tones of a very proper English gentleman.

“I’m just travelling with them for a few days.”

“Hmmm…” he notes taking a long thoughtful puff, “Didn’t think you looked French. Still, riding around Uganda in a Russian helicopter isn’t my cup of tea.”

“Nor mine, actually” I admit. “My pilot’s gone AWOL.”

“AWOL, eh?” the gentleman sniffs. “Bloody messy business if you ask me.”

“Yes. He flew off to the Seychelles three days ago with a plane full of young ladies.”

“Left you stuck with a bunch of frogs, did he? That’s not cricket.”

“No,” I admit. “I don’t suppose it is.

“You are, I take it, an American?” the gentleman says after a long pause.

“No,” I reply. “Australian, actually. I just live in the States.”

“Different colony, same story” he replies with a wry chuckle and then finally turning to actually look in my direction concedes: “I’ve nothing against Americans, you know. I’ve worked with them for many, many years to each others great benefit, I may add.” Then, after pausing to draw a long draft of smoke from his pipe, adds without a hint of cynicism: “the only problem with Americans is…they sue.” It is no longer imperative that I actually add anything to the conversation so I sit back with my cold beer and listen to the old man ramble.

“I’ll say this for Americans” he continues happily, “their children are extremely polite. They always call me ‘sir.’ You know, I met one on my first Americans at this very lodge. 1952, it was. I was just a lad here with my father to visit the Falls. I’ll never forget that american. A big, bold, brash, whirlwind of a man. He was holding court right here in the bar when my father and I arrived. Telling the most marvelous tales of adventure. Apparently he had crashed his plane quite nearby. Trying to dodge a flock of Ibis or some such thing. Caught a wheel on the Lodge’s telephone line and his plane went right down. How’s that for luck? Got to be the only telephone line for a hundred miles! He was bloodied and bruised and broken; but that didn’t stop him coming to the bar for a drink.” The old man caught me in his gaze and asked me almost in a whisper: “do you know who that American was?”

“No idea,” I answered truthfully.

“The first American I ever met was…” like a true storyteller he takes a moment for one more puff from his pipe, “Ernest Hemingway.”

“Hemingway? Really…” I add. “Right here in this bar?”

“That is a fact,” the gentleman smiled. There’s a photo of him up behind the bar that was taken that very day.”

A smartly dressed waiter appears as if he has been waiting for his cue. “Gin and tonic, Colonel bwana,” he says quickly exchanging the empty glass for a fresh one.

“Good man,” the colonel replies, “good man. My good man in Africa, that’s who you are Thomas.”

“Thank you, Colonel bwana,” Thomas replied with a big smile, “and you, bwana? Another beer for you? It is a very hot afternoon.”

“Yes. Thanks, Thomas. Another beer sounds perfect.”

The colonel sipped on his gin and tonic in quiet reverie as I stared out over the blue and purple horizon. It was an unexpected sight after burnt reds and browns of Kenya.

“Magnificent, aren’t they?” the Colonel notes. “The mountains of the moon. All these years, I never tire of looking at them. Of course, you know of the expedition of Burton and Speke.”

“I’ve seen the movie,” I reply, fully aware that this will ruffle the Colonel’s feathers.”

“The movie? Bah!” the Colonel spits. “I’ve heard all about that movie! Completely preposperous. Total fabrication. You do know that Speke had no intention of waiting for Burton to return before presenting their findings to the Society. It was his specific intention to get back to England first and take all the credit…and I hear say that the movie actually claims in the epilogue that Speke was correct about Lake Victoria being the source of the Nile when, in fact, it provides only one of several feeder rivers to the Nile. Ridiculous!”

After my movie comment the Colonel was a lot less inclined to regale me with stories. In fact, a few minutes later he pays his tab and leaves with little more than a hrumph goodbye. I spend most of the rest of the afternoon drinking and thinking about the Africa of Hemingway, Burton, Speke and, I guess, the Colonel. This leaves me feeling uncomfortably colonial and quite drunk. As dusk is falling I decide to go back to my room to freshen up before dinner. Thomas holds the door for me as I stumble toward the exit.

“Please Bwana,” he says as I fix my gaze on a pair of grinning hyena seated like demented sheepdogs only a few feet off the path, “pay no attention to the dogs. Some of the guests have been feeding them and they are coming back every night now. Please ignore them and they will go away.”

Wandering drunk back to my room I am suddenly aware that in Africa I am more than just another colonial, I am food. I’ve read that hyena jaws are so strong they eat their prey bones and all. They may be efficient eaters but not always the most proficient hunters, preferring to clean up after lions; but how hard could if be to take down a middle-aged, drunk ex-pat Australian? I stagger just a little quicker back to my room in so much of a hurry that I do not notice the grazing hippopotamus just outside my door until I have practically tripped over it.

Asking a hippo to wipe his feet before coming inside is always a mistake..

This is not good. Many times I have been warned that hippos – especially those away from water – are the most dangerous animals in Africa. They tend to spook easily and when frightened charge with surprising speed right at their target swinging their large teeth with their big powerful necks in a six foot arc from side to side. More people are killed by hippos in Africa than any other animal, including lions.

I freeze as the hippo stares at me with beady, bloodshot eyes. I can hear it snorting with disgust and can tell it is contemplating a charge. Only now to I realize just how drunk I am. Instead of slowly trying to back away, my marinated brain decides this is too good of photo opportunity to pass up. I reach into my pocket and pull out my handy Nikon.

It isn’t so much the photo that pisses off the hippo as the flash from the camera. Emitting a sort of grumbling snort the beast turns sharply in preparation for attack. I am about to turn sharply and run myself when both my arms are pinned to my side from behind.

“Don’t move,” the voice says. “Stay right where you are.”

I do as the voice commands and, after what seems an eternity but is more likely about two minutes, the hippo walks slowly down the path to find a quieter spot to graze.

“Well,” Christo says lighting a joint and inhaling deeply, “you look like you could use some of this.”

From Here to Nairobi 8 – The Christo Conundrum

21 Monday Jun 2010

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.... the old Entebbe tower had seen better days ....

By Neville Cole

It was a very subdued crew who climbed aboard the “big fuckin’ Russian helicopter” that morning at the Oasis. We hadn’t heard from John, Jean or the girls in nearly three days and none of us was confident that they would meet us in Entebbe by 1pm as planned. I was especially concerned as John was my ride back to Nairobi.

Wolfgang came down to see us off. He was grinning like a demented hyena as if delighted to have an empty hotel again. After several weeks at near capacity he was probably looking forward to a much needed break and an opportunity for some serious drinking. Just as the engine exploded to life and the MI-8’s enormous rotor blade began to turn, the lean silhouette of Christo appeared on the horizon loping toward us. Michel saw him immediately and gestured to the pilot to wait. Justin jumped down to the tarmac and ran out greet him. I’ve got to hand it to the guy he knows how to make a dramatic entrance. Typical Christo performance. None of us had seen or heard from him since we returned from Koobi Fora; then, just as we are leaving he comes strolling back from beyond looking for a free ride. Still, as much as I didn’t want to like this guy I couldn’t help but admire him. He carried no bags and wore only a simple traditional Turkana wrap and an old pair of sandals. The only adornment I could see hung around his neck: a small gold medallion in the shape of a sun inlaid with various gemstones. For someone with an apparent Messiah complex he played the part very well. He climbed aboard the helicopter without a sideways glance and quietly took up the space against the wall next to Justin.

One note here for any of you considering a trip in an Mi-8 helicopter. They are loud buggers. Bloody loud. I do not suggest a trip of over 3 hours in one. Ever. The only advantage they have over small planes is they don’t make me want to puke up my last two meals.

Landing at Entebbe airport is a surreal experience on the best of days. Doing so in a helicopter designed for war by the old terminal building is even more eerie. We managed to get a bird’s eye view of the far end of the main runway on the way down. Yes, that same runway where, still rotting in the tropical heat, we could clearly see the hijacked Air France airliner, that once held 300 hostages until their rescue on July 4, 1976.

I also happened to notice that the closer we got to landing the more agitated Christo became. He actually appeared to be fidgeting. After touching down, we all stood to get off the plane. All of us but Christo and Justin, that is. They lingered at the back of the pack talking intently in anxious but hushed tones. The rest of us filed off the plane and were escorted by armed guards to the customs area for processing. I only had to glance around briefly to confirm that Christo was not part of the group.

“There is a message from Jean and John,” Justin said as the group gathered in the terminal a half and hour later. “They say they will all meet us at the Black Pearl in three days.”

“What?” Michel said with a jolt? “We are supposed to shoot at Lake Edward tomorrow. Jean knows this? What is going on?”

“You think maybe they are having too much fucking fun in the Seychelles for their own good?” I suggested, stating, as usual, the plainly obvious.

Our papers in order, we all marched back to the Mi-8. Several machine gun carrying soldiers were only now stepping back to the tarmac. They appeared to have made a thorough check of our cargo and equipment. Wherever Christo was hiding he apparently had not been discovered. I had to wonder if it was a simple lack of documentation that forced him to take this action or if something more sinister was going on. My curiosity was well and truly piqued; I needed to get to the bottom of this Christo conundrum once and for all.

Long Days Journey into Bolivia – Part 1: The Airport’s Fault

17 Thursday Jun 2010

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.... truth in advertising - another shining example ....

By Neville Cole


I was cursing myself for the hundredth time for not paying more attention in Spanish class, when the woman behind me finally interrupted my hopeless attempt to mime the phrase “I need to get to La Paz.”
“She is asking whether you want to say here in Bogata or go to Lima tonight and wait there for a flight to La Paz on Thursday.”
“No,” I repeated anxiously. “I have to get to La Paz tonight. I have a video crew waiting for me in Bolivia. We start shooting Thursday. I have to get to Lima by 9pm to make my connecting flight.” The woman didn’t even bother translating me; the Avianca rep already had an answer.
“There is no flight. It is not our fault.”
“Then whose fault is it?” I asked.
The Avianca rep understood this question and had a very practiced answer.
“It is not Avianca’s fault. It is the airport’s fault.” She then began talking again to the woman behind me in Spanish.

“She says: You stay here tonight and leave in the morning or you go to Lima tonight and wait there for flight. It is the only way to La Paz.” The rep spoke again.

“She also say they cannot pay for any hotel.”
“There are no other flights?”
“No. There are no flights.”
I don’t give up easily; but three hours at various airline counters trying work out transportation details while stretching my 200-word caveman-like Spanish vocabulary way beyond breaking point was more than enough to make me raise a white flag. At least I knew of a decent hotel in Bogata. At least I knew I could get there in broad daylight and get a good night’s sleep for a change. I certainly didn’t fancy another midnight taxi ride through a South America capital with a driver determined to take me to “a much better good hotel” or “a club to meet some very pretty girl.”
“I’ll stay here and fly out tomorrow,” I resigned. “But can you find my bag?”
“Follow me.” The Avianca rep took off like a shot obviously delighted to be one step closer to getting rid of me.
I chased her through the terminal at close to a jog and just happened to notice a departure board that clearly showed a flight for Lima, Peru leaving at 4:58pm.
I grabbed the rep by the sleeve almost jerking her off her feet in the process. She let out a sharp yelp but I blundered on gesturing wildly at the board and blurting: “Won’t that flight get me to Lima before nine? Can’t I can still get to La Paz tonight?”
“That’s not Avianca, that’s TACA.”
“But it will get me there, right?”
“Avianca will not pay. It is not our fault”
“I’ll buy a ticket.” The rep huffed and muttered for a moment.
“Ok. Follow me.”
As we galloped toward the TACA counter I prayed a profane little prayer. “Please God, or whomever or whatever… Let there just be just one bloody seat on this plane and get me the fuck out of Colombia!”
My prayer was answered. There was one seat left and in first class, no less. The Avianca rep left me to buy my ticket and dashed off to find my missing bag. She need not have hurried as paperwork in South America in never a speedy process. I watched and waited and occasionally answered questions for the next 30 minutes as the TACA rep put pen to paper to not only fill out my ticket by hand but check and double check the 15 lines of calculations it took him to work out the price of my ticket. Just when I thought he was done, he called over his supervisor to check and double check his notes and calculations. I began to wonder whose fault it would be if I missed my flight because of a tricky ticketing situation.
My patience was pushed to the limit but I finally got my golden ticket and just as I swore “Shit! Where the hell is my bag?” the Avianca rep tossed it up on to the scale.
“Goodbye,” she said as I gathered my boarding pass. “Good luck with the video.”
“Thanks,” I said, totally flustered and with little sincerity.
I should have been more grateful, I suppose. After all, all I had to do now was clear customs in 25 minutes and I would be on my flight to Lima and still make my connection to La Paz and get in just in time to start the shoot first thing in the morning. Everything was going according to plan.
I ran through the terminal and glanced at a billboard that drew one final, bitter smile. “Colombia,” it read, “the only risk is wanting to stay.”
“Yeah, right…” I laughed.
My joy was fleeting and that all too familiar sinking feeling returned as I fell into line at security. Machine gun toting soldiers were forcing each and every passenger to open their bags and shuffle the contents around. There was no way I would get through all this in 25 minutes. “So close and yet so far” I began to moan. I was about to lose it for real when a sharp finger jabbed me in the shoulder.
“Follow me.” The Avianca rep took off toward the gate and I rushed right after her. A blank-faced soldier looked up momentarily as we appeared and, after only the slightest nod from the rep, waved me through with sweep of his gun.
“Muchas gracias,” I said to the suddenly gloriously beautiful Avianca rep, “por… er… everything, ah… todo.”
“Go,” she said with a Mona Lisa smile. “You will miss your flight.”
“…but that would not be your fault,” I said turning to leave.
“No,” she laughed. “It would be the airport’s fault.”
It’s always the someone or something else’s fault in South America.