Part 3 following the path of the sun, My last days in the South Pacific and going west.
I turned 21 while on Bougainville. Although I could drink anything I wanted anywhere I wanted, officially I was underage. As I announced this fact while I sat on the Veranda of LSSC, listening to crashing of the Ocean's waves not 10' below me,feeling the salt air lick my face and surrounded by the Male friends I had made I was told by them that it was common that on one's 21st birthday one showed at the local Pub to “call the Bar.” IE buy a round for house. I had learned to love these people so I had gotten quite comfortable there and was more then willing to honor this tradition. It was that evening that over the shortwave that piped rock and roll music into the bar when the the 50 Toya juke box wasn't being engaged that I heard a song that was a call from the life I'd had in Phoenix, less then a year before. It was Queen's “39”. Not a great song by Queen but one that hit me in a vulnerable spot. I began to think of my friends there, they were doing pretty much what I was doing, turning a buck while it was light out, spending free time in each others company to share war stories and allow the alcohol to do the job on us that WD-30 did on rusty threads: un stick, loosen, remove the mechanical energy stored in us doing what we had to do to survive. I was suddenly Homesick. It didn't last long but I recall the sharp edged emptiness of that moment even now. I would love to have celebrated my 21st with the guys I left in Phoenix however I was here, and these loud raucous Sex maniacs and talented alcoholics suited me. I was also considering doing a few other things. My crew and I had gotten tight and I was offered the opportunity to join the clan. On the Island this condition is called “gon Tropo”, and I have to admit, the life of being a fair sized fish and still growing in a very small pond appealed to me. TO join the clan I would have to undergo a manhood test, get my nose pierced for a pig tusk that officially I would have to take from a pig I killed but I could buy one at the local market. I would undergo a scarring that would mark me a man and a member of the clan. I was actually seriously considering this. I bought the Pig Tusk and when I emptied my pockets on my arrival home from the market my father saw the pig tusk and wanted to know what in the hell I was going to do with it. So, I told him. Well by now you can imagine his reaction: He blew a gasket. He threatened to remove all assistance while I was in School and I would never be welcome in his home again... He ranted and raved for about 20 minutes when I noticed my mother just quietly staring at me. She had the look. That look warned that you were coming very close to the end of her patience and that she was rallying her troops, and those troops consisted of the all the armies of Hell. She looked at my dad and silenced him with the same look (I think paraphrasing Rudyard Kipling is appropriate here “ They called her Raksha, meaning Demon, Father wolf had almost forgotten what she was like in a fight, they called her demon, it was a name she had earned and not because she was a great dancer.”) My mother turned to me and said just loud enough for me to hear through her clenched teeth. “Albert K, You're 21 now. You can do whatever you wish to do. Just know this...IF you do this, I will not know you, I will not know your children, I will not know their children. Now you do whatever you want.” and with that she turned and walked away. Needless to say I abandoned these plans. I think I still have the pig tusk, Shame really I'd have been a huge hit in Art school.
My last days in the yard were extremely odd. One day a strange local struggled up the road, turned into the yard as though he had some sorta palsy coming straight for me. This man had something wrong with him and the crew could smell it. He struggled to me and said “Masa, need wok? Mi wok.” meaning he was inquiring if I had a job available for him. Before I could answer I saw a stone fly past me and damn near hit the guy. Then another then a rain. The boys were expelling this man with curses and a word I'd never heard before. “Masalia!” (Masa- LIE) the man ran away up the road, tripping as he went. I asked Clabus what the hell that was all about. Clabus wouldn't look me in the eye as he tapped his finger to his head as he shook it to suggest that the guy had something in his head and he didn't want to say. That night I related the incident to the guy I worked with while we sat drinking our beer. He shook his head. “Masalai is their word for the devil, they thought the guy was possessed. Bloody Kanaka's, The guy is sick in the head, and they see it as the work of the devil. He won't survive the week. Bloody Kanaka's”. I usually waited for my ride in the morning in front of the Arawa Post office which was slightly down and across the street from the Hospital. As I stood in the cool morning light I saw something not right in the jungle just behind the Hospital. There was something that was in the trees that didn't belong there. I walked slowly towards the visage, as I grew closer I could see that there was a man that had climbed into a tree. Maybe he was sleeping up there. As I grew closer I could see that he hadn't climbed the tree, he was hanging from it. As I approached I watched as the Pink snails moved over his flesh exploring it for whatever they could eat. He dangled at the end of a knotted sheet that had been tied around his neck and had been used to hoist him into the tree. The ground around was trampled and the man had been beaten. It was the same man that had approached me looking for a job the day before.
It was also at this time that my career as an artist almost took a serious hit. It was one of my last days in the yard and we were waiting on a crane to come and pick up a large container that was shaped like the shavings container that covered a pencil sharpener, except that this one was 12' tall and made from plate steel and weighed about a ton. It was a fuel tank for one of the mobile machines at the mine and we had placed threaded bungs on all the lines that lead to the interior. One thing anyone who has any experience working with or on machinery will tell you is that sand in the fuel tank will quite literally destroy the machine that the fuel is powering. We had removed the bungs on the side and we were waiting for the crane to come to lift it so we could get the two on the underside. We got word that the crane would be delayed a day, and although I would have needed the same crane to put it on the back of the truck to carry it back up the mountain, I decided, foolishly I might add, to get a pipe wrench under it and twist the threaded bungs off. The box itself was supported by logs of “Diwai”(wood) and I grabbed a monkey wrench and reached under it and began to turn the bung off. Before my third turn the diwai log holding the container upright slipped and the whole thing came down on my hand. To this moment in time I cannot understand why my hand wasn't crushed. Needles to say with the rounded bottom it rolled over a bit and I was able to pull my hand free. I had a gaping hole in the back of my hand near the base of the thumb that was an 1” wide and 2” long and was at least ½” deep. The Jungle with its moisture and heat is the last place on the earth you want a serious wound like this. I told Clabus I needed to be run to the haus sik (hospital) and that he should finish that blast, shut it down, clean up and wait for Robbie to come back and To tell him where I was and I'd call him. I ran down the road and got the guy who ran the mine's junk yard and told him I needed a ride to the hospital. The blood pouring out of my wound told him why. He dropped me off at the hospital and I ran in and got the attention of the doctor. This was the one of the weirdest hospitals I'd ever been to. Because I wasn't a mine employee he didn't know what to do with me, I assured him we could straighten this up after he sewed me up. He then took me into the operating room and asked if I wanted him to clean out the wound. I assured him I did. He then asked me if I would want him to put antiseptic on and sterilize the wound. I said yes, that would be swell. At that moment a stray dog walked past the open door and I told him that I would also prefer it if he kept the dog out of the room while he was sewing me up. He closed the door and cleaned and then sterilized my wound. He then sewed it up. By that time Robbie had shown up and I filled him in on what had happened and he just shook his head in disgust. I think he figured I was smarter then that and maybe he'd been wrong about a few other things. I told Robbie that I'd cover an expense that I incurred and he assured me that this was indeed the fact. The doctor sewed me up and Robbie took me home and without a word drove away. Within a week the wound was red and sensitive to the touch. For some reason they only gave me antibiotics when I went back and showed them the wound. It was then that they told me that if it got much worse they might have to fly me out to have my thumb removed. I went into shock...here I was just months from going to art school and I was contemplating removing the thumb of my drawing hand. I'm not sure if I was upset with myself for doing something so stupid or at the doctor for not giving me antibiotics after he sewed me up, however I looked the doctor straight in the eye and said “you cut off my thumb and I'll kill and eat your first born in front of you.” He was shocked I guess because he thought I'd meant every word of it. He asked then what I suggested they do. I remembered that they kept some serious antibiotics on hand for spinal and deep wound and bone infections, I think it was Cipro. It was what they gave a guy at the mine who had had fallen three stories and only saved his own life by grabbing onto a cable. Sliding down that cable had turned the palm of his hand into hamburger.
I was warned that the potency necessary would make me nauseous and give me diarrhea. I assured the doctor that me being sick was preferable to me being maimed. Inside of two weeks my wound was clean again and allowed to heal normally. However for years I had a prominent scar on my right hand that resembled a sickle and I noticed nerve damage in the surrounding area of the wound itself. I don't know if allowing me to take the slurry house job was his way of assuring himself I wouldn't be hurting myself again, or if he was just so disappointed in me that he didn't want to look at me any more then he had to. I could be imagining it...30+ years is a long to speculate on the subject, however I did notice that he had less to say to me, and if he did it was all business. However I survived intact. I have done some equally stupid things since then that did harm to my hands and the rest of my body...It wasn't the first time nor would it be the last. I suppose that's why youngsters heal so fast.
It was also coming on time for the planned trip into the bush to find Yamamoto's plane. The number in attendance would be about 12 guys. Half of them made the trip regularly, the other half were some of my father's minions and the guy I worked with, along with prior discussed mine equipment manager. We loaded up into 3 range rovers and headed toward Buin. It was up the road past the mine and into the Jungle proper. When surrounded with this untamed wilderness, one feels small, insignificant. One would drive past trees that were as big around as a house, and dealing with the sensory overload of the green surrounding with the only light being delivered in small bright pin points in the canopy over head one begins to understand how the world was when we were still monkeys hanging from trees. The trip was long and arduous. We traveled on roads that were just barely that, through rivers and streams that traveled at various speeds and were of various depths. It took us all day to get to Buin. We camped in a clearing on the outskirts of the Village of Buin and the guys set up camp. What can I say, they had generators, cooked pork, had a stereo and of course all the beer you could drink...a real testosterone male bonding event if I ever experienced one. We fell asleep surrounded by the forest but because we had camped in a clearing we could see all the stars of the milky way above us. I have never seen the stars like I did that night. It was one of the more beautiful things that I ever saw. The next morning we had breakfast and broke camp. We were back on the road within an hour, driving through Buin and beyond. We finally reached a small village close to the site and found the man who owned the property that held the plane. A deal was struck for him to take us there and back. So now we set out on foot. We went deeper into the jungle wading across a stream that we were told was good to drink from. I did something then that I have never felt safe to before or after. I reached down and drank directly from the stream. The water was cool, sweet and clear. After walking for almost an hour and a half at about 1 in the afternoon we came finally to a small clearing. Until one has done it one can never truly know what it is to sweat in air that has damn near 90% humidity. We were soaked to the bone in our own sweat. There before us was the wreck of an aluminum airplane, Partially grown over by the bush but not as much as it could have if not maintained, the area around the major part of plane was littered with parts of the plane, some of them having been molten in the past and allowed to cool and remain where they landed, A testament to a Horrible crash, a terrible fire. One could almost hear the screams. Around this was pieces of fresh cut wood with Japanese writing on them. The air was quiet and thank God the men I was with treated it like the tomb that it was. My father had little to say. I think that all the romance he had put into the idea of WW II finally all added up to useless pain and destruction and complete futility. I can't be sure of this, I half expected an eruption of curses concerning Pearl Harbor...but he remained mostly silent and only spoke in a low voice when he spoke at all. After about an hour we decided it was time we started making our way back. We reached the edge of Panguna by dark and drove the rest of the way down the mountain back home and were showering getting ready for a well deserved sleep by 10:00. I don't recall my father discussing the trip until we were back in Phoenix the Christmas after we had all returned to the states.
About two weeks after the trip into the bush I returned from work to find my mother in my bedroom staring out the window with a sort've fascinated glare that one sees on people who are either watching a car wreck or somebody about to jump off a roof. My window faced the neighbor's house. He was a local who found himself a job as a low level manager so he was given his own house for him and his family. I headed for the shower to rid myself of the grit and sweat that I seemed to achieve at work and upon returning to my room found my mother just as I'd left her. “Hi honey, how was work? Come here and look at this.” I came up behind her and saw that the neighbor's dog was tied to one of the posts that held up the house. The Dog was a bitch in heat and every buck within miles had come to pay his respects. There were dog “confrontations” going on in the yard probably to figure who was going to get the next turn. The bitch seemed to look as completely exhausted as I imagined she was because of all the attention she was getting, I sorta understood what caught my mothers attention, Nothing like a canine gang rape to pass the day. “Ma, Please don't have me explain to you what they're doing.” She turned and with a 'shut up smartass' look, assured me that she KNEW what they were doing, after all she had brought both me and my sister into the world. What confused her was that if the people wanted to keep the puppies they'd have picked just one of the males so that they'd be sure what the puppies would like like...with this approach, she was sure that each puppy would come out looking completely different from each other. I realized what was going on and as gently as I could, explained to my mother that the puppies would come out looking exactly like they were supposed to, like dinner. My mother was at first shocked and then concerned. The reason for her concern is one of those things that I learned was just part of my Mothers unique charm: she stated she hoped that the lady of the house would hopefully forget that she, my mother, had requested a sample tasting of the local native cuisine. The subject never came up again. My mother was in her element on Bougainville. The house was small and we showed up just before dark with little more energy to do anything but to eat and sleep. She had developed a ring of friends that met for coffee damn near every morning. All were married to the guys who made the Mine work, All knew the same folks, all would share info, exchange food goods far particular recipes ( my ma took a shot at cooking some of the pink snails into escargot) gather to learn from one something that they all wished to know. At night there was nothing else to do but to get together and socialize so my father would accompany her to other peoples houses while the men talked of sports and work, the woman would discuss all those mysterious things that fascinate women that they hadn't covered in complete detail during their meetings during the day.
I had finally decided to make my way to the travel agent and start the ball rolling for my extraction from New Guinea. I had pretty much decided the route that I would pursue, I would go to china, I would go to India, I would go to Egypt, then on to Greece, Italy, Germany, Netherlands, France, England and then home. I mentioned my plans to my parents and saw the look of concern on both their faces. China was communist, Germany was up close and personal to the iron curtain and the Egypt had terrorists that set off bombs. I wanted to see the Great Wall, The Taj, The Pyramids, The Acropolis and then the major Museums and still have about 3 weeks back in the states before I needed to worry about getting to Cleveland to start school. My Father pulled me aside about a day later after I'm sure some private conversation between him and my mother. “look, I want to reconsider your itinerary. We don't want you dealing with communist countries or the middle east. Please your mother is worried sick that something will happen and I still live with her.” The three of us discussed this at length for days, I arguing that this might be my only chance to see these things, they concerned that where these things were located were locations that I might never escape from. The debate ensued. We finally negotiated an either or situation, I could either go to China, or Egypt. I decided on Egypt. After all I wasn't sure I'd get a visitors visa for china. So I made my appointment with the travel agent. When I had finally made it into his office I forgot to bring the notes and had him make the reservations out of New Guinea, to Manila, which was one of two choices I had the other being Australia. From there to India to Egypt, to Greece, Italy, France, Netherlands, and then to England. I forgot to mention Germany. And the travel agent booked me to India as only a three hour stopover at 2 am on my way from the Philippines to Egypt. I didn't realize all this till I was on my way to Manila, and by that time is was too late, my visa into Egypt was date specific. I planned on leaving Bougainville at the end of May. I began to take my camera to the separate spots on the island that I wished to photograph. These were not the postcard views of the island such as the palm tree lined beach, The New England seaside village quality of Kieta, The modern efficient gloss of Panguna, the vast hole in the earth that was the mine, the happy national/western work force working side by side struggling to bring Papua-New Guinea into the 20th century. I had no interest to take one photo of a copra or coco plantation, I didn't wish to capture the Primitive Charm of the Island I had called home for almost a year, or even the nostalgic objects left there by the war. I didn't even take a picture of Mt. Bagana, the active Volcano who's smoking top always threatened to let loose and spew like an over ripe pimple in the middle of the island. I photographed the yard. I photographed the front of LSSC, I photographed the market with the nursing mothers selling their wares for coins and their husbands, brothers, fathers and sons in the shade chewing beetle nut and smoking their 2 toya cigarette/cigars made from twist tobacco rolled in strips of the national Papua- New Guinea newspaper. I photographed the milling locals that hung out every day in front of the supermarket, not cause there was anything for them there, it was that they had nothing else to do, the mine had probably brought them and their families there to work and because of one reason or another, whether it was drunkenness while at work, Or over reacting to some insult delivered by an expat, whatever the reason they had lost their job and didn't have enough money to return home. To proud to beg, they sought whatever work they could find. I photographed the places that meant something to me and the people I saw. Mostly the locals...I had been studying their faces for almost a year and I sensed the intense confusion with what was happening to their culture and their country. It was the look of culture shock. On my last day at work, I handed my keys to the truck to Robbie. He handed me my last pay envelope and a letter of recommendation. I shook his hand and told him I'd enjoyed every minute of it and we parted. The next day I began to pack. I was able to make myself a drawing board that fit into the suitcase with about 5 pads of paper. I collected together a small drawing kit of pencils an eraser, a metal quill, a watercolor brush and a bottle of ink that I double wrapped in plastic. I packed a pair of overalls, 2 pairs of jeans, and about 4 shirts. I would wear my Puma's. I packed toiletries. I then began packing my books, my portfolio that would be sent directly to Boston and be waiting for me there when I got there. I packed the boxes of the things that I had collected, the carvings, the shells, the moments that I had spent there. As I sit here now in front of the screen. My fingers tapping the lettes to assemble the words, the Thompson Twins blaring out of the speakers part of me is still there. Walking on the Island, along the beach, sitting with a rowdy group of mechanics and miners drinking and yelling over the din, I'm standing in the dark watching the pink universe quiver as it ate and mated. I'm loading sand into the hopper, dictating directions on how when and why in a language that sounds alien but made sense to the people that depended on me to make sure they earned their lively hood. I was leaving. This chapter of my life was quickly closing...I would bid it farewell in the morning.
The next morning my father and mother drove me to the airport. I had one suitcase that I would take with me. Another along with my portfolio case with the artwork I'd managed to keep that I'd claim when I'd gotten back to the US. I was introduced to a friend of my father who was fulfilling his requirement to return to his his home country once a year. The Officialdom of PNG had seen what happened to these westerners when they show up and don't leave...so that made it necessary for anyone getting a work Visa to return home for 2 weeks every year so they wouldn't get used to living in New Guinea. We took off and out the window Mt. Bagana blew a cloud of smoke that said farewell. I was on my way back to Moresby.
I guess my dad had told this guy that he'd introduced me to keep an eye on me, because when we got to Moresby I found out that he was on the same exact flight leaving the next day going to Manilla. After we checked in to the Davara he headed to the bar, I hit the streets. I wanted to buy some souvenirs for the Aunt that would be picking me up in New York and let me stay with her for a week to get my bearings at being back on American soil. I also needed something for my Great Aunt in Ohio for storing a trunk of my stuff while I was doing my adventure. The plan was I would land in NY, get my shit straitened out, head to Boston, be met at the airport by my Sister, head to the cape and hang for a couple of weeks, get acclimated to no longer being a stranger in a strange land and then drive the family station wagon to Barberton to my Aunts house, hang out there for a day our two collect my trunk and head north to the Dorm and College a few days later. Yeah well the best laid plans of mice and men...
I found a gallery that specialized in local crafts and bought a couple of hanging head/bird carvings, and then decided that some chow was in order. I roamed the open air market and found that the fermenting spoiling dressed carcass' of cus-cus (about the only native mammal to New Guinea, it looks like a possum) that the tattooed local was fanning to keep the flies off of to not be in the least helping my appetite. So I got some banana's and explored. I checked out a Haus Tambaran, This is a highly pitch roofed house that the men use for ceremony and to store ceremonial objects. It looks like the open mouth of a crocodile. I had been trained to notice the scars and facial tattoo's of the locals. I noticed different tribes, villages, and clans. I just wandered that day, feeling lost, purposeless, in a holding pattern. I wasn't there and not quite on my way yet. I was loaded in the chamber and was waiting for the hammer to fall to send me west. However considering what awaited me at the next stop I probably needed as much down time as I could get.
I have debated with myself extensively about how to write down the next part of my story. I spent 46 hours in Manilla, and how I occupied myself there during most of it is not something I would necessarily wish to speak of in front of women or children. It lends little to the story...Its the kind of talk that men speak of when sitting around a table in a bar, with leers and reassurances. Seedy talk, concerning some of the things men and women do together. I can usually pick out the liars just from my dealing with this experience. I wrote out the whole thing here, read it, changed a few things to make it seem less seedy and then just decided to delete it and leave it at; I spent the evening with a few girls attempting to re define Sin, and they about killed me. Anything you may have heard about multiple sex partners at once being the greatest experience any man ever had is either a better man then myself or lying. I felt like I'd been passed through a meat grinder. The morning after I could barely walk, I could not speak, and I had possibly the worst hangover of my life. I have often described how I felt as feeling as though someone had removed my spine, beat me with it like a rubber hose and then managed to put it back upside down. Lets just leave it there. As the girls left I fell back on the bed and attempted to sleep. I checked the clock it was 2 in the afternoon. It took me about 3 hours to muster myself into a clean pair of jeans, a clean shirt and to put the clothes I'd worn the day before in plastic so I could wash them after my next stop. Although I had hours to go before I needed to be at the airport, I decided I'd check out and just motivate in that direction, maybe get some lunch and attempt to read the book I'd brought while I waited in the airport bar that was if I could remember how to focus my eyes. As I left I knocked on my traveling companions door, I heard “What?!” and I announced I was checking out and heading for the airport, he said “OK” and I checked out of the hotel. The sun assaulted me and drilled holes into my eyes as I flagged down a cab. The ride was at breakneck speeds and we had countless near misses, but at that point Death would have been welcome. I got to the airport and stopped at the duty free store, I wanted to buy some cigars...at this point I would have drank bleach if I thought it would make the pain in my body hurt less. I made my purchase and went into the bar. I ordered coffee, the bartender assured me that they didn't serve coffee. I laid the equivalent of $20 on the bar and asked him if he was sure of that. He got me a cup of coffee, I ordered a sandwich...which I wouldn't have been able to swallow if I didn't have to coffee to wash it down with. I slowly but surely began crawling out of the pit I had woke up in. I drank another cup of coffee and ate another sandwich, It was then I noticed a large older man looking my way. He got up and walked to the table I had been occupying. It was then that I noticed that he and I were the only westerner white people in the bar. “Do you mind if I join you?” He had an unusual accent, and I noticed his suit, It was handmade...probably cost him a couple of grand, at least. His white hair was neatly combed and he his hands were manicured. When he held out his hand for me to shake I noticed that they were as soft as child's. This man had never worked for living. He introduced himself as Michael (MEE shell). I must admit I felt ashamed of my appearance. I was grateful I had bathed, cause I was sure I look like something the cat had thrown up. I offered him a seat and introduced my self as Albert Kauslick, of Phoenix Arizona, most recently from Bougainville, Papua-New Guinea. His eyes lit up, “You know, in all my travels, New Guinea is one of the only places I've never been. But I always wanted to go...Please tell me about it.” He flagged the Bartender and made a circle with his fingers pointing at the table. So I began telling him of where, what and why. I asked him where he hailed from “Originally Belgium, but I only go back once in a while. I've been traveling the world since I got out of University.” His name was Micheal (Meeshell). He was a duke, His cousin was Boudoin, King of the Belgians, and although he and his brother were in line for the throne “many people would have to die before either of us were called on.” He had decided to fly into the Philippines because his brother enjoyed the cigars they made there better then the Cubans...so he had popped in to pick him up a couple of boxes. He was actually on his way to India. I explained the recently discovered Faux Pas concerning my trip to India, and he reassured me that It was a pity, it was worth the trip. However he doubted that it would be going anywhere and it gave me an excuse to return to that area of the world. We entertained each other for an hour or two, and I finally Said “Look, nothing personal, however I used to date a woman named Michelle, and the way you pronounce your name reminds me of her...How about if I just call you Mike?” He smiled wide...”Oh, that would be delightful...Mike...yes, I like that. They call me Meeschy at home and it makes my skin crawl. Yes Mike, Mike will do wonderfully. Tell me Albert, What airline are you traveling on?” I pulled out the ticket and handed it to him...”I can't make heads or tails...I think Egyptair and I think that's the flight number.” He looked at the ticket and handed it back. “Albert, I need to be excused for a moment. I'll be back however...If you please?” I nodded “Pal, I've got no plans other then to rebuild my spine and be on that plane when it leaves.” He smiled and walked out of the bar. I ordered a beer...I was beginning to feel as though I might just survive. He returned in about 20 minutes and sat grinning. “Ah, my new friend, I see you have graduated from coffee to something with some spirit in it.” I nodded and eluded to the evening I'd spent. He shook his head and said something about youngsters. I asked if he'd taken care of whatever he needed to do. He smiled a yes and then told me he'd arranged to change his flight to the one I would be taking. I lifted my Eyebrows. He noticed, “I hope you don't mind, however I rarely find a traveling companion who's company I enjoy as much as yours. I hope my company doesn't labor you too much?' I smiled and shook my head “Naw pal, I don't mind your company in the least, however you must let me buy you a drink for a change.” He smiled and stated that if I insisted he was drinking cognac. I killed my beer and motioned to the bartender for two of what ever Mike was drinking He complied. I was ready to down it like a shot. Mike held his soft hand on mine and said “No Albert. Cognac is a complete experience. First allow it to sit in the glass. Treat it like a beautiful woman. Sit, let her fill your senses. Put your nose in the glass, notice how it is shaped so the vapors will be funneled into your nose. Now gently breathe in through your nose. Let it fill you. Allow her to warm in your hands...let her unfold for you. The glass in the bottom of the snifter is thinner so that the heat from your hand will allow it to bloom. Now take just the smallest bit in and allow it to sit on your tongue and gently let it slide down your throat. Yes. Good yes?” I nodded. Yes it was good. He nodded and smiled. “My friend, Good cognac and fine cigars are the grease that allows heads of state to sit as men and have something in common. It is the joy that each find in these that allows them to discuss their differences. Trust me on this. Many wars have been avoided in the modern world because of the two items that we are enjoying.” He then related his adventures as a part time diplomat. There was an incident with the wife of a head of state when he was in college. Seemed she had her own plans for Mike, The tryst was discovered and it almost caused an international incident. It was decided that Mike should possibly abandon his diplomatic responsibility and just do whatever he wished. I smiled. “so, we're a couple of black sheep who happened to land here on our way to somewhere else?” He nodded with a smile. Mike and I sat next to each other on the flight out of Manilla and discussed many subjects: Art, Politics, religion, elected government vs. one of inheritance ( I recounted the scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where one is dubbed king because a watery tart threw a sword at him...Mike laughed so hard I thought he was going to have a stroke...He needed to see that film so I wrote it down for him) I think he enjoyed my company because His being what he was seemed to be far less important to me then who he was. We deplaned in Bombay at about 2 am and I walked him to his gate. We parted company when his flight loaded with a hand shake and a farewell. He turned and was gone. I sent some postcards of my travels to the address he gave me. When I finally got to Cleveland and had a chance to unpack, I chose a drawing of one of the locals I had done in New Guinea and signed it “for my friend, Mike, Who needs to go and meet this guy in person and who taught me how to drink a civilized beverage in and uncivilized place.” and I sent it to the address. About 8 weeks later just after my mid terms, I got a box delivered to me, the post mark was from Istanbul. Within was a bottle of cognac and a note “Albert my friend, received the drawing. It was beautiful-thank you so much. Here is a small gift I retrieved from the house...enjoy it my friend. 'MIKE'”. I called a couple of the guys that lived in the dorm and we sat down and polished off the bottle in one evening and I gotta admit it was as smooth as glass. I kept the bottle and kept pennies in it for years. When I was in Boston after I'd graduated, a guy I knew who drank cognac regularly, saw the bottle and asked just where I'd gotten it. I told him. He shook his head and stated, “ That bottle of “hootch” as you called it would probably cost you about $5,000 to replace.” he offered me $100 for the empty bottle, I told him no. It broke in the move down here. I dunno. I never heard from Mike again and I lost the address years ago. I hope if he is still amongst the living that he is well and to know, that the only hootch I drink now is Cognac, and I have introduced many of the deserving to the 'beautiful lady.'
My last days in the yard were extremely odd. One day a strange local struggled up the road, turned into the yard as though he had some sorta palsy coming straight for me. This man had something wrong with him and the crew could smell it. He struggled to me and said “Masa, need wok? Mi wok.” meaning he was inquiring if I had a job available for him. Before I could answer I saw a stone fly past me and damn near hit the guy. Then another then a rain. The boys were expelling this man with curses and a word I'd never heard before. “Masalia!” (Masa- LIE) the man ran away up the road, tripping as he went. I asked Clabus what the hell that was all about. Clabus wouldn't look me in the eye as he tapped his finger to his head as he shook it to suggest that the guy had something in his head and he didn't want to say. That night I related the incident to the guy I worked with while we sat drinking our beer. He shook his head. “Masalai is their word for the devil, they thought the guy was possessed. Bloody Kanaka's, The guy is sick in the head, and they see it as the work of the devil. He won't survive the week. Bloody Kanaka's”. I usually waited for my ride in the morning in front of the Arawa Post office which was slightly down and across the street from the Hospital. As I stood in the cool morning light I saw something not right in the jungle just behind the Hospital. There was something that was in the trees that didn't belong there. I walked slowly towards the visage, as I grew closer I could see that there was a man that had climbed into a tree. Maybe he was sleeping up there. As I grew closer I could see that he hadn't climbed the tree, he was hanging from it. As I approached I watched as the Pink snails moved over his flesh exploring it for whatever they could eat. He dangled at the end of a knotted sheet that had been tied around his neck and had been used to hoist him into the tree. The ground around was trampled and the man had been beaten. It was the same man that had approached me looking for a job the day before.
It was also at this time that my career as an artist almost took a serious hit. It was one of my last days in the yard and we were waiting on a crane to come and pick up a large container that was shaped like the shavings container that covered a pencil sharpener, except that this one was 12' tall and made from plate steel and weighed about a ton. It was a fuel tank for one of the mobile machines at the mine and we had placed threaded bungs on all the lines that lead to the interior. One thing anyone who has any experience working with or on machinery will tell you is that sand in the fuel tank will quite literally destroy the machine that the fuel is powering. We had removed the bungs on the side and we were waiting for the crane to come to lift it so we could get the two on the underside. We got word that the crane would be delayed a day, and although I would have needed the same crane to put it on the back of the truck to carry it back up the mountain, I decided, foolishly I might add, to get a pipe wrench under it and twist the threaded bungs off. The box itself was supported by logs of “Diwai”(wood) and I grabbed a monkey wrench and reached under it and began to turn the bung off. Before my third turn the diwai log holding the container upright slipped and the whole thing came down on my hand. To this moment in time I cannot understand why my hand wasn't crushed. Needles to say with the rounded bottom it rolled over a bit and I was able to pull my hand free. I had a gaping hole in the back of my hand near the base of the thumb that was an 1” wide and 2” long and was at least ½” deep. The Jungle with its moisture and heat is the last place on the earth you want a serious wound like this. I told Clabus I needed to be run to the haus sik (hospital) and that he should finish that blast, shut it down, clean up and wait for Robbie to come back and To tell him where I was and I'd call him. I ran down the road and got the guy who ran the mine's junk yard and told him I needed a ride to the hospital. The blood pouring out of my wound told him why. He dropped me off at the hospital and I ran in and got the attention of the doctor. This was the one of the weirdest hospitals I'd ever been to. Because I wasn't a mine employee he didn't know what to do with me, I assured him we could straighten this up after he sewed me up. He then took me into the operating room and asked if I wanted him to clean out the wound. I assured him I did. He then asked me if I would want him to put antiseptic on and sterilize the wound. I said yes, that would be swell. At that moment a stray dog walked past the open door and I told him that I would also prefer it if he kept the dog out of the room while he was sewing me up. He closed the door and cleaned and then sterilized my wound. He then sewed it up. By that time Robbie had shown up and I filled him in on what had happened and he just shook his head in disgust. I think he figured I was smarter then that and maybe he'd been wrong about a few other things. I told Robbie that I'd cover an expense that I incurred and he assured me that this was indeed the fact. The doctor sewed me up and Robbie took me home and without a word drove away. Within a week the wound was red and sensitive to the touch. For some reason they only gave me antibiotics when I went back and showed them the wound. It was then that they told me that if it got much worse they might have to fly me out to have my thumb removed. I went into shock...here I was just months from going to art school and I was contemplating removing the thumb of my drawing hand. I'm not sure if I was upset with myself for doing something so stupid or at the doctor for not giving me antibiotics after he sewed me up, however I looked the doctor straight in the eye and said “you cut off my thumb and I'll kill and eat your first born in front of you.” He was shocked I guess because he thought I'd meant every word of it. He asked then what I suggested they do. I remembered that they kept some serious antibiotics on hand for spinal and deep wound and bone infections, I think it was Cipro. It was what they gave a guy at the mine who had had fallen three stories and only saved his own life by grabbing onto a cable. Sliding down that cable had turned the palm of his hand into hamburger.
I was warned that the potency necessary would make me nauseous and give me diarrhea. I assured the doctor that me being sick was preferable to me being maimed. Inside of two weeks my wound was clean again and allowed to heal normally. However for years I had a prominent scar on my right hand that resembled a sickle and I noticed nerve damage in the surrounding area of the wound itself. I don't know if allowing me to take the slurry house job was his way of assuring himself I wouldn't be hurting myself again, or if he was just so disappointed in me that he didn't want to look at me any more then he had to. I could be imagining it...30+ years is a long to speculate on the subject, however I did notice that he had less to say to me, and if he did it was all business. However I survived intact. I have done some equally stupid things since then that did harm to my hands and the rest of my body...It wasn't the first time nor would it be the last. I suppose that's why youngsters heal so fast.
It was also coming on time for the planned trip into the bush to find Yamamoto's plane. The number in attendance would be about 12 guys. Half of them made the trip regularly, the other half were some of my father's minions and the guy I worked with, along with prior discussed mine equipment manager. We loaded up into 3 range rovers and headed toward Buin. It was up the road past the mine and into the Jungle proper. When surrounded with this untamed wilderness, one feels small, insignificant. One would drive past trees that were as big around as a house, and dealing with the sensory overload of the green surrounding with the only light being delivered in small bright pin points in the canopy over head one begins to understand how the world was when we were still monkeys hanging from trees. The trip was long and arduous. We traveled on roads that were just barely that, through rivers and streams that traveled at various speeds and were of various depths. It took us all day to get to Buin. We camped in a clearing on the outskirts of the Village of Buin and the guys set up camp. What can I say, they had generators, cooked pork, had a stereo and of course all the beer you could drink...a real testosterone male bonding event if I ever experienced one. We fell asleep surrounded by the forest but because we had camped in a clearing we could see all the stars of the milky way above us. I have never seen the stars like I did that night. It was one of the more beautiful things that I ever saw. The next morning we had breakfast and broke camp. We were back on the road within an hour, driving through Buin and beyond. We finally reached a small village close to the site and found the man who owned the property that held the plane. A deal was struck for him to take us there and back. So now we set out on foot. We went deeper into the jungle wading across a stream that we were told was good to drink from. I did something then that I have never felt safe to before or after. I reached down and drank directly from the stream. The water was cool, sweet and clear. After walking for almost an hour and a half at about 1 in the afternoon we came finally to a small clearing. Until one has done it one can never truly know what it is to sweat in air that has damn near 90% humidity. We were soaked to the bone in our own sweat. There before us was the wreck of an aluminum airplane, Partially grown over by the bush but not as much as it could have if not maintained, the area around the major part of plane was littered with parts of the plane, some of them having been molten in the past and allowed to cool and remain where they landed, A testament to a Horrible crash, a terrible fire. One could almost hear the screams. Around this was pieces of fresh cut wood with Japanese writing on them. The air was quiet and thank God the men I was with treated it like the tomb that it was. My father had little to say. I think that all the romance he had put into the idea of WW II finally all added up to useless pain and destruction and complete futility. I can't be sure of this, I half expected an eruption of curses concerning Pearl Harbor...but he remained mostly silent and only spoke in a low voice when he spoke at all. After about an hour we decided it was time we started making our way back. We reached the edge of Panguna by dark and drove the rest of the way down the mountain back home and were showering getting ready for a well deserved sleep by 10:00. I don't recall my father discussing the trip until we were back in Phoenix the Christmas after we had all returned to the states.
About two weeks after the trip into the bush I returned from work to find my mother in my bedroom staring out the window with a sort've fascinated glare that one sees on people who are either watching a car wreck or somebody about to jump off a roof. My window faced the neighbor's house. He was a local who found himself a job as a low level manager so he was given his own house for him and his family. I headed for the shower to rid myself of the grit and sweat that I seemed to achieve at work and upon returning to my room found my mother just as I'd left her. “Hi honey, how was work? Come here and look at this.” I came up behind her and saw that the neighbor's dog was tied to one of the posts that held up the house. The Dog was a bitch in heat and every buck within miles had come to pay his respects. There were dog “confrontations” going on in the yard probably to figure who was going to get the next turn. The bitch seemed to look as completely exhausted as I imagined she was because of all the attention she was getting, I sorta understood what caught my mothers attention, Nothing like a canine gang rape to pass the day. “Ma, Please don't have me explain to you what they're doing.” She turned and with a 'shut up smartass' look, assured me that she KNEW what they were doing, after all she had brought both me and my sister into the world. What confused her was that if the people wanted to keep the puppies they'd have picked just one of the males so that they'd be sure what the puppies would like like...with this approach, she was sure that each puppy would come out looking completely different from each other. I realized what was going on and as gently as I could, explained to my mother that the puppies would come out looking exactly like they were supposed to, like dinner. My mother was at first shocked and then concerned. The reason for her concern is one of those things that I learned was just part of my Mothers unique charm: she stated she hoped that the lady of the house would hopefully forget that she, my mother, had requested a sample tasting of the local native cuisine. The subject never came up again. My mother was in her element on Bougainville. The house was small and we showed up just before dark with little more energy to do anything but to eat and sleep. She had developed a ring of friends that met for coffee damn near every morning. All were married to the guys who made the Mine work, All knew the same folks, all would share info, exchange food goods far particular recipes ( my ma took a shot at cooking some of the pink snails into escargot) gather to learn from one something that they all wished to know. At night there was nothing else to do but to get together and socialize so my father would accompany her to other peoples houses while the men talked of sports and work, the woman would discuss all those mysterious things that fascinate women that they hadn't covered in complete detail during their meetings during the day.
I had finally decided to make my way to the travel agent and start the ball rolling for my extraction from New Guinea. I had pretty much decided the route that I would pursue, I would go to china, I would go to India, I would go to Egypt, then on to Greece, Italy, Germany, Netherlands, France, England and then home. I mentioned my plans to my parents and saw the look of concern on both their faces. China was communist, Germany was up close and personal to the iron curtain and the Egypt had terrorists that set off bombs. I wanted to see the Great Wall, The Taj, The Pyramids, The Acropolis and then the major Museums and still have about 3 weeks back in the states before I needed to worry about getting to Cleveland to start school. My Father pulled me aside about a day later after I'm sure some private conversation between him and my mother. “look, I want to reconsider your itinerary. We don't want you dealing with communist countries or the middle east. Please your mother is worried sick that something will happen and I still live with her.” The three of us discussed this at length for days, I arguing that this might be my only chance to see these things, they concerned that where these things were located were locations that I might never escape from. The debate ensued. We finally negotiated an either or situation, I could either go to China, or Egypt. I decided on Egypt. After all I wasn't sure I'd get a visitors visa for china. So I made my appointment with the travel agent. When I had finally made it into his office I forgot to bring the notes and had him make the reservations out of New Guinea, to Manila, which was one of two choices I had the other being Australia. From there to India to Egypt, to Greece, Italy, France, Netherlands, and then to England. I forgot to mention Germany. And the travel agent booked me to India as only a three hour stopover at 2 am on my way from the Philippines to Egypt. I didn't realize all this till I was on my way to Manila, and by that time is was too late, my visa into Egypt was date specific. I planned on leaving Bougainville at the end of May. I began to take my camera to the separate spots on the island that I wished to photograph. These were not the postcard views of the island such as the palm tree lined beach, The New England seaside village quality of Kieta, The modern efficient gloss of Panguna, the vast hole in the earth that was the mine, the happy national/western work force working side by side struggling to bring Papua-New Guinea into the 20th century. I had no interest to take one photo of a copra or coco plantation, I didn't wish to capture the Primitive Charm of the Island I had called home for almost a year, or even the nostalgic objects left there by the war. I didn't even take a picture of Mt. Bagana, the active Volcano who's smoking top always threatened to let loose and spew like an over ripe pimple in the middle of the island. I photographed the yard. I photographed the front of LSSC, I photographed the market with the nursing mothers selling their wares for coins and their husbands, brothers, fathers and sons in the shade chewing beetle nut and smoking their 2 toya cigarette/cigars made from twist tobacco rolled in strips of the national Papua- New Guinea newspaper. I photographed the milling locals that hung out every day in front of the supermarket, not cause there was anything for them there, it was that they had nothing else to do, the mine had probably brought them and their families there to work and because of one reason or another, whether it was drunkenness while at work, Or over reacting to some insult delivered by an expat, whatever the reason they had lost their job and didn't have enough money to return home. To proud to beg, they sought whatever work they could find. I photographed the places that meant something to me and the people I saw. Mostly the locals...I had been studying their faces for almost a year and I sensed the intense confusion with what was happening to their culture and their country. It was the look of culture shock. On my last day at work, I handed my keys to the truck to Robbie. He handed me my last pay envelope and a letter of recommendation. I shook his hand and told him I'd enjoyed every minute of it and we parted. The next day I began to pack. I was able to make myself a drawing board that fit into the suitcase with about 5 pads of paper. I collected together a small drawing kit of pencils an eraser, a metal quill, a watercolor brush and a bottle of ink that I double wrapped in plastic. I packed a pair of overalls, 2 pairs of jeans, and about 4 shirts. I would wear my Puma's. I packed toiletries. I then began packing my books, my portfolio that would be sent directly to Boston and be waiting for me there when I got there. I packed the boxes of the things that I had collected, the carvings, the shells, the moments that I had spent there. As I sit here now in front of the screen. My fingers tapping the lettes to assemble the words, the Thompson Twins blaring out of the speakers part of me is still there. Walking on the Island, along the beach, sitting with a rowdy group of mechanics and miners drinking and yelling over the din, I'm standing in the dark watching the pink universe quiver as it ate and mated. I'm loading sand into the hopper, dictating directions on how when and why in a language that sounds alien but made sense to the people that depended on me to make sure they earned their lively hood. I was leaving. This chapter of my life was quickly closing...I would bid it farewell in the morning.
The next morning my father and mother drove me to the airport. I had one suitcase that I would take with me. Another along with my portfolio case with the artwork I'd managed to keep that I'd claim when I'd gotten back to the US. I was introduced to a friend of my father who was fulfilling his requirement to return to his his home country once a year. The Officialdom of PNG had seen what happened to these westerners when they show up and don't leave...so that made it necessary for anyone getting a work Visa to return home for 2 weeks every year so they wouldn't get used to living in New Guinea. We took off and out the window Mt. Bagana blew a cloud of smoke that said farewell. I was on my way back to Moresby.
I guess my dad had told this guy that he'd introduced me to keep an eye on me, because when we got to Moresby I found out that he was on the same exact flight leaving the next day going to Manilla. After we checked in to the Davara he headed to the bar, I hit the streets. I wanted to buy some souvenirs for the Aunt that would be picking me up in New York and let me stay with her for a week to get my bearings at being back on American soil. I also needed something for my Great Aunt in Ohio for storing a trunk of my stuff while I was doing my adventure. The plan was I would land in NY, get my shit straitened out, head to Boston, be met at the airport by my Sister, head to the cape and hang for a couple of weeks, get acclimated to no longer being a stranger in a strange land and then drive the family station wagon to Barberton to my Aunts house, hang out there for a day our two collect my trunk and head north to the Dorm and College a few days later. Yeah well the best laid plans of mice and men...
I found a gallery that specialized in local crafts and bought a couple of hanging head/bird carvings, and then decided that some chow was in order. I roamed the open air market and found that the fermenting spoiling dressed carcass' of cus-cus (about the only native mammal to New Guinea, it looks like a possum) that the tattooed local was fanning to keep the flies off of to not be in the least helping my appetite. So I got some banana's and explored. I checked out a Haus Tambaran, This is a highly pitch roofed house that the men use for ceremony and to store ceremonial objects. It looks like the open mouth of a crocodile. I had been trained to notice the scars and facial tattoo's of the locals. I noticed different tribes, villages, and clans. I just wandered that day, feeling lost, purposeless, in a holding pattern. I wasn't there and not quite on my way yet. I was loaded in the chamber and was waiting for the hammer to fall to send me west. However considering what awaited me at the next stop I probably needed as much down time as I could get.
I have debated with myself extensively about how to write down the next part of my story. I spent 46 hours in Manilla, and how I occupied myself there during most of it is not something I would necessarily wish to speak of in front of women or children. It lends little to the story...Its the kind of talk that men speak of when sitting around a table in a bar, with leers and reassurances. Seedy talk, concerning some of the things men and women do together. I can usually pick out the liars just from my dealing with this experience. I wrote out the whole thing here, read it, changed a few things to make it seem less seedy and then just decided to delete it and leave it at; I spent the evening with a few girls attempting to re define Sin, and they about killed me. Anything you may have heard about multiple sex partners at once being the greatest experience any man ever had is either a better man then myself or lying. I felt like I'd been passed through a meat grinder. The morning after I could barely walk, I could not speak, and I had possibly the worst hangover of my life. I have often described how I felt as feeling as though someone had removed my spine, beat me with it like a rubber hose and then managed to put it back upside down. Lets just leave it there. As the girls left I fell back on the bed and attempted to sleep. I checked the clock it was 2 in the afternoon. It took me about 3 hours to muster myself into a clean pair of jeans, a clean shirt and to put the clothes I'd worn the day before in plastic so I could wash them after my next stop. Although I had hours to go before I needed to be at the airport, I decided I'd check out and just motivate in that direction, maybe get some lunch and attempt to read the book I'd brought while I waited in the airport bar that was if I could remember how to focus my eyes. As I left I knocked on my traveling companions door, I heard “What?!” and I announced I was checking out and heading for the airport, he said “OK” and I checked out of the hotel. The sun assaulted me and drilled holes into my eyes as I flagged down a cab. The ride was at breakneck speeds and we had countless near misses, but at that point Death would have been welcome. I got to the airport and stopped at the duty free store, I wanted to buy some cigars...at this point I would have drank bleach if I thought it would make the pain in my body hurt less. I made my purchase and went into the bar. I ordered coffee, the bartender assured me that they didn't serve coffee. I laid the equivalent of $20 on the bar and asked him if he was sure of that. He got me a cup of coffee, I ordered a sandwich...which I wouldn't have been able to swallow if I didn't have to coffee to wash it down with. I slowly but surely began crawling out of the pit I had woke up in. I drank another cup of coffee and ate another sandwich, It was then I noticed a large older man looking my way. He got up and walked to the table I had been occupying. It was then that I noticed that he and I were the only westerner white people in the bar. “Do you mind if I join you?” He had an unusual accent, and I noticed his suit, It was handmade...probably cost him a couple of grand, at least. His white hair was neatly combed and he his hands were manicured. When he held out his hand for me to shake I noticed that they were as soft as child's. This man had never worked for living. He introduced himself as Michael (MEE shell). I must admit I felt ashamed of my appearance. I was grateful I had bathed, cause I was sure I look like something the cat had thrown up. I offered him a seat and introduced my self as Albert Kauslick, of Phoenix Arizona, most recently from Bougainville, Papua-New Guinea. His eyes lit up, “You know, in all my travels, New Guinea is one of the only places I've never been. But I always wanted to go...Please tell me about it.” He flagged the Bartender and made a circle with his fingers pointing at the table. So I began telling him of where, what and why. I asked him where he hailed from “Originally Belgium, but I only go back once in a while. I've been traveling the world since I got out of University.” His name was Micheal (Meeshell). He was a duke, His cousin was Boudoin, King of the Belgians, and although he and his brother were in line for the throne “many people would have to die before either of us were called on.” He had decided to fly into the Philippines because his brother enjoyed the cigars they made there better then the Cubans...so he had popped in to pick him up a couple of boxes. He was actually on his way to India. I explained the recently discovered Faux Pas concerning my trip to India, and he reassured me that It was a pity, it was worth the trip. However he doubted that it would be going anywhere and it gave me an excuse to return to that area of the world. We entertained each other for an hour or two, and I finally Said “Look, nothing personal, however I used to date a woman named Michelle, and the way you pronounce your name reminds me of her...How about if I just call you Mike?” He smiled wide...”Oh, that would be delightful...Mike...yes, I like that. They call me Meeschy at home and it makes my skin crawl. Yes Mike, Mike will do wonderfully. Tell me Albert, What airline are you traveling on?” I pulled out the ticket and handed it to him...”I can't make heads or tails...I think Egyptair and I think that's the flight number.” He looked at the ticket and handed it back. “Albert, I need to be excused for a moment. I'll be back however...If you please?” I nodded “Pal, I've got no plans other then to rebuild my spine and be on that plane when it leaves.” He smiled and walked out of the bar. I ordered a beer...I was beginning to feel as though I might just survive. He returned in about 20 minutes and sat grinning. “Ah, my new friend, I see you have graduated from coffee to something with some spirit in it.” I nodded and eluded to the evening I'd spent. He shook his head and said something about youngsters. I asked if he'd taken care of whatever he needed to do. He smiled a yes and then told me he'd arranged to change his flight to the one I would be taking. I lifted my Eyebrows. He noticed, “I hope you don't mind, however I rarely find a traveling companion who's company I enjoy as much as yours. I hope my company doesn't labor you too much?' I smiled and shook my head “Naw pal, I don't mind your company in the least, however you must let me buy you a drink for a change.” He smiled and stated that if I insisted he was drinking cognac. I killed my beer and motioned to the bartender for two of what ever Mike was drinking He complied. I was ready to down it like a shot. Mike held his soft hand on mine and said “No Albert. Cognac is a complete experience. First allow it to sit in the glass. Treat it like a beautiful woman. Sit, let her fill your senses. Put your nose in the glass, notice how it is shaped so the vapors will be funneled into your nose. Now gently breathe in through your nose. Let it fill you. Allow her to warm in your hands...let her unfold for you. The glass in the bottom of the snifter is thinner so that the heat from your hand will allow it to bloom. Now take just the smallest bit in and allow it to sit on your tongue and gently let it slide down your throat. Yes. Good yes?” I nodded. Yes it was good. He nodded and smiled. “My friend, Good cognac and fine cigars are the grease that allows heads of state to sit as men and have something in common. It is the joy that each find in these that allows them to discuss their differences. Trust me on this. Many wars have been avoided in the modern world because of the two items that we are enjoying.” He then related his adventures as a part time diplomat. There was an incident with the wife of a head of state when he was in college. Seemed she had her own plans for Mike, The tryst was discovered and it almost caused an international incident. It was decided that Mike should possibly abandon his diplomatic responsibility and just do whatever he wished. I smiled. “so, we're a couple of black sheep who happened to land here on our way to somewhere else?” He nodded with a smile. Mike and I sat next to each other on the flight out of Manilla and discussed many subjects: Art, Politics, religion, elected government vs. one of inheritance ( I recounted the scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where one is dubbed king because a watery tart threw a sword at him...Mike laughed so hard I thought he was going to have a stroke...He needed to see that film so I wrote it down for him) I think he enjoyed my company because His being what he was seemed to be far less important to me then who he was. We deplaned in Bombay at about 2 am and I walked him to his gate. We parted company when his flight loaded with a hand shake and a farewell. He turned and was gone. I sent some postcards of my travels to the address he gave me. When I finally got to Cleveland and had a chance to unpack, I chose a drawing of one of the locals I had done in New Guinea and signed it “for my friend, Mike, Who needs to go and meet this guy in person and who taught me how to drink a civilized beverage in and uncivilized place.” and I sent it to the address. About 8 weeks later just after my mid terms, I got a box delivered to me, the post mark was from Istanbul. Within was a bottle of cognac and a note “Albert my friend, received the drawing. It was beautiful-thank you so much. Here is a small gift I retrieved from the house...enjoy it my friend. 'MIKE'”. I called a couple of the guys that lived in the dorm and we sat down and polished off the bottle in one evening and I gotta admit it was as smooth as glass. I kept the bottle and kept pennies in it for years. When I was in Boston after I'd graduated, a guy I knew who drank cognac regularly, saw the bottle and asked just where I'd gotten it. I told him. He shook his head and stated, “ That bottle of “hootch” as you called it would probably cost you about $5,000 to replace.” he offered me $100 for the empty bottle, I told him no. It broke in the move down here. I dunno. I never heard from Mike again and I lost the address years ago. I hope if he is still amongst the living that he is well and to know, that the only hootch I drink now is Cognac, and I have introduced many of the deserving to the 'beautiful lady.'
posted by ak at 9:45 AM
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