Old Asia Hand

By Kenneth J. Hall

The trilogy is about a young and fresh out of university engineer who lands a job in SE Asia. Totally unknown territory for him. All the mishaps and mistakes and misunderstandings. Local ladies. Other expats. Beautiful ladies and some not so nice. Generally how he muddles his way through whilst employed by the UK government and not end up in jail.
Beginnings is how it all came about and is based in the UK, learning curve is based in SE Asia, and all the confusion and mishaps. In Old Asia Hand, which is when he feels he has a handle and a firm grip on life in SE Asia, and how mistaken he can be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Singapore
• Release date: Feb 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781482864076

Kenneth J. Hall

Kenneth J. Hall is a retired British mechanical engineer who has spent most of his adult life as a contractor working around the world. Of latter years, he became rather selective in where he chose to work and with whom. As a result, he acquired a vast store of interesting knowledge and background information. His books draw upon this experience, and his characters are a mixture of composite persons with a large dose of pure fantasy. He has been heard to remark that writing is far better than real life as he can make his characters do exactly as he wishes. He now lives with his Indonesian wife and their teenage daughter in SE Asia and spends his time writing, sitting quietly in the sun, and drinking cold beer.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The dark blue seats in the business class section of the Malaysian Airlines 747 long haul from Heath Row to Kuching, via Kuala Lumpur were comfortable. More so since the business section of the over night and midweek flight was not crowded. Though what conditions were like back in the, Cattle Class area of the aircraft I neither knew, nor cared. However crowded they were though, personal experience would have indicated that the service would be just as good. The stewardesses just as sweet, petite and polite, as in my more spacious part of the plane. Not I suppose that any part of a Jumbo Jet, from a passenger contemplating being cooped up for over 12 hours in a pressurised metal tube, moving at about 8 miles per minute at 40,000 feet, could actually be regarded as being spacious. Still, it’s a relative cosmos in which we dwell; I reflected and wriggled down deeper into my seat.

Personally, I had room to stretch my leg. So was in a better position to enjoy the attention and excellent service offered by the very attractive MAS hostess. I had no complaints. Since I spoke good Bahasa Indonesia and there is very little difference between that language and Malay. They found this interesting. I whiled away some time in chatting to them.

London-KL-Kuching, is a long way. More so as the journey has to be broken at Kuala Lumpur. There the crew changes and the aircraft continues on its way to Australia. I would have to transfer to an internal flight for the 2 hour and 40 minute leg to Kuching.

I had almost forgotten just how far it was from Britain to South East Asia. I nursed my gin and tonic, experienced enough to know that drinking as much free alcohol as possible was not a good idea at the best of times. Observation of others who had, led me to believe that doing so on a long haul jet was courting disaster. I cast my mind back to an old acquaintance of mine from when I was working in Saudi Arabia, and chuckled at the memory.

Sean came from Dublin and was a confirmed and hardened drinker. Why he then should chose to work in Saudi was a mystery to me. Between London and Dhahran, about six hours flying time, he had managed to totally incapacitate himself, to the extent that the cabin crew had been forced to resort to physically removing him from the aircraft in a wheel chair. This they had thoughtfully parked discreetly in the arrivals area. All might have been well once Sean had regained consciousness and also some control over his higher faculties. Unfortunately, Sean managed to fall out of the wheel chair. What actually then transpired caused a minor diplomatic incident as it was not clearly established if Sean had actually entered Saudi and therefore subject to their views regarding the consumption of Demon drink. Sufficient to say his presence and skills in the Kingdom were not a high priority on the agenda of what ever body is responsible for recruiting foreign labour in that country.

Sitting there quietly, travelling through the night skies, I had only the drone of the four engines for company. No other passenger sat beside me. The cabin lights had been dimmed and some film silently flickered across the screen in front of me. The crew went softly about their business, but what few other business class travellers there were, either slept or watched the flashing screen. I hadn’t plugged in the headphones. The thought of Sean falling out of his wheel chair to the consternation of the airport officials made me smile to myself. They assumed he had died and were lifting him back into the wheel chair. They were totally bewildered when the comatose body suddenly came to life on them, cursing them roundly in Gaelic and belching rum and Coke fumes. My mind shot off on a course of other amusing incidents and then, by itself and as if on autopilot guided itself onto a course of personal contemplation. Alone with my thoughts, I took a sip of my drink. Unwillingly and for the first time began to systematically and consciously reflect upon the past 15 years or so of my life. I quietly took stock of myself and what I found, I found disturbing.

I was rapidly approaching 40. I was still a non-smoker and I drank very little. My weight remained stable at 68Kg. and though never having been keen on team sports, I jogged, SCUBA dived and enjoyed both wind surfing and surfing, though I was not particularly competent at any of those activities. Drinking and I had somehow, never managed to become partners. Though in my younger years I had attempted on a couple of occasions to go on a bender. I discovered that if I drank beer, I very rapidly became bloated and the sheer volumes required to become inebriated defeated me. If I tried to drink shorts, then my stomach quickly rejected the alcohol concentrations and I vomited. Consequently, physically I was not, nor could become, a drinker I saw little profit in continuing the experiment. On the credit side I didn’t have to experience the pains and distress of a hangover. There again, unlike some others I had met during my wanderings, neither could I find solace in the bottom of a bottle. All I ever seemed to find was nausea and projectile vomiting. I could not drink sufficient to become drunk. It just would not sit in my stomach long enough to get absorbed into my bloodstream. Or the sheer volume defeated me. Either way, the end result was the same, sickness, an upset stomach and no fun. If anything, as I had grown older, my ability to accommodate alcohol had lessened, rather than adapted. A glass of wine with a meal, a couple of small beers and that was my lot. Life’s problems then had to be faced and solved and not tucked away in some alcoholic inspired fog. Or so I had for years, smugly conned myself into believing. Actually though, when I gave serious thought to my life, I discovered to my chagrin that unless almost forced at gun point to make a decision, my method had not in fact been one of confronting and solving. I had in fact preferred to ignore and move on. Go with the flow, as folks would say back in Pembrokeshire.

Also I seemed to have lead a life of whirlwind speed. Always looking onwards and never having time for the present. Like a child perhaps, running along a beach, picking up shells. Forever looking for the next shell and never taking time to truly examine and value what had already been collected. In my case though, the running had only served to delay the day of accounting and in turn had also increased the total sum of problems to be finally faced. I realised with a sudden shock that more than half of my statistically anticipated life span had gone. Where had they gone? What had I actually achieved? Where was my life leading? What did I want? Did I in fact have any plans? How many had I, albeit, not with deliberation or malice, hurt along my unthinking and unheeding path of personal gratification? The one thing in my life that had value beyond price, I had let slip through my fingers. Not once, but twice. Most people, I brooded, can learn from their own mistakes, clever people from the mistakes of others. Only an animal, without the benefit of reasoning logic would continue to perform the same actions, which would produce the same results. It was with these disquieting thoughts in my mind, I viewed my past, my immediate present and with some trepidation, my future.

My parents were both still alive, though now getting on in years. My father, nearly 80 was retired but remained very active involving himself in constructive activities around South Bank, that were within his physical capabilities. When he finally agreed to hand over South Bank to John’s care and management, he and my mother had thought to purchase a small cottage by the sea. Solva had been their choice. It’s a very pretty little fishing village on the North Pembrokeshire coast, with a nice little harbour. Though what exactly he would have done to occupy himself there, he had never disclosed.

Lucy however had firmly, quietly and relentlessly resisted the idea. It was, I suppose the first time that she had openly rebelled. It no doubt came as shock to those around her that she could be so adamant. She was totally intransigent in her views. You have no friends or family there. she said. What will you do? This was addressed to my father. How can I look after you? What will happen if it snows and you fall? The fact that the last time it snowed in Solva was around the era of the Napoleonic wars, cut no ice with Lucy. She continued with her grim and insidious campaign. Her common sense had finally prevailed and my parents had remained at South Bank, safe in familiar surroundings. The house was sufficiently large and as Lucy had pointed out, it was easier to all be under one roof. How could she keep an eye on them and Cwm Bach? Cook meals, see to the baby and do all the other one hundred and other things if they lived on the other side of the county? Somehow she had managed to make Solva sound like the dark side of the moon rather than 60 minutes drive away. Basically her Asiatic background and conditioning had rebelled against and totally rejected the idea of splitting up the family unit. In retrospect, all agreed that she had been correct. Lucy had silently folded her arms and quietly smiled and nodded. She had won. So now three generations of Bridgemans lived in happy harmony under one roof with Lucy established as being firmly in charge of social affairs. A role she played with a quiet and dignified firm efficiency coupled with consummate dedication and determination. The ‘She lion", not then yet aged 37 had finally come into her own and would watch and guard over her pride.

John was now 52 and he ran the increasingly difficult to manage farm alone without outside help. It was quite obvious to any outsider that cared to examine the state of British farming that if the prevailing economic policies in force were continued, then the days of the small farmer were numbered. The strain was beginning to take its toll. Whereas in my father’s time hard work, dedication to one’s livestock and sensible straightforward planning had been sufficient, now was not the case. Increasingly the small farmer had also to become an accountant, technician and expert at European bureaucracy. Paperwork was insidiously eating away at his precious time. Time management was all-important. Unfortunately, the British weather has no respect of time managers, neither have cattle. Lucy still had boundless energy and contrary to my earlier prognostications of all those years ago, had not acquired any excess weight. This was no doubt due to the workload that she had unflinchingly shouldered. I have never in my life met anyone who was prepared to take on so many responsibilities and discharge them so effectively and efficiently with the minimum of fuss. And all willingly, with a smile too. She was still as pretty as when we had first met and her voice was still as husky as ever. Consequently my elder brother was just as besotted with her as ever he had been from the day when I introduced her, and she had first crossed South Bank’s threshold. Things, had in fact, as Uncle Gwyn had predicted all those years ago, Worked out fine.

They had two children. James, nearly 15 and keen to study farm management, and Caroline, who was approaching 13. Whereas James was very solid and square shaped and definitely followed both his father and grandfather in manner and stoic attitude, Caroline took after her mother. She was in a word beautiful. If ever the combination of European genes had melded with those of Asia to produce the best of both races, then she was the result. Small, petite, with high cheekbones but strange to relate blond hair. But with an almost Mediterranean, light olive like sheen to her skin. She had a pair of green eyes that held the gaze of all who met her. She was also as intelligent as she was pretty and had set her heart on becoming a pharmacist. She was by nature gentle and caring and it was obvious that she would do well. With her mother’s energy, father’s determination and her acknowledged good looks, very little would stand in her way.

South Bank farm was unfortunately a different story. Two large for one, too small for two, it had become an ongoing headache to maintain its viability. Dairy and beef production in Britain over the years since I had left home had seen both major changes and price fluctuations. That along with an ever increasing stream of regulations emanating from Brussels. The escalating cost of necessary capital equipment and ability to keep all the balls in the air at any one time resulted in the average small farmer needing to adapt. He was now required to become a cross between a financial wizard, stockman and juggler in order to see his way clear from one year to the next. For many the strain had been too great and they had either held on to the bitter end and sunk without trace, or sold up and got out. In some sad cases the loss of lands held for generations within the family had proved to be too much and suicides amongst West Walian farmers had increased dramatically.

James seemed to have an innate grasp of the complexities that now faced the farming community. He studied, read and sought out information. He played an adult role in offering his contributions towards the best path to tread to maintain South Bank’s heads above water. It was he that introduced a computer to South Bank and he that now took over the role of accountant.

To me it was all a different world and though dearly fond of them all, I felt both sad and divorced from their rural struggles under grey Welsh skies. I wished them all well, but was at a loss to know as how to contribute anything concrete and tangible. I had no part to play and could offer little. I knew nothing of farming and had no role in their scene. In fact I now wondered just where I did belong. I reluctantly drew the conclusion that the answer was nowhere. One foot in Asia, the other in Europe and God alone knew where the brain resided. This feeling of lacking roots disturbed me. I examined it more closely.

Though it also defied logic. I began to understand how from an outsider’s viewpoint, my freewheeling lifestyle and bank balance were to be envied, but perambulating around the world had begun to lose a lot of its appeal for me. What was I doing? Where was I going and for what reasons? Where? I wondered, had I strayed from the path of normality and common sense. Where and when and why had I allowed myself to be seduced by the roller coaster ride of hedonistic capitalism? It had, I realised all slipped in under my guard as subtly as an odourless gas. Then, suddenly it had all been too late, and I suspect too much effort on my behalf to change my life style. The choice had been there for sure, but I had been too busy enjoying myself to see what was right under my nose. The words from an old Bob Segar song echoed in my brain, Wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then. Yes, I reflected sadly, I had indeed spent far too long, Running against the wind.

Only good luck and some compassionate guardian angel had kept me alive and out of jail. How I had managed to wriggle out of a long prison term back in Medan still gave me the cold shivers. A trailer full of an illegal substance parked in my front driveway and up to my neck in some import and smuggling racket that implicated both Indonesian and British Governments. Not to mention a pair of twins and their parents after my blood. I had, I realised escaped by the skin of my teeth and it was really all down to luck.

The Gang had spirited the trailer away. They did later have the, Decency to offer me my cut of their marijuana peddling activities. I at least had the sense to refuse and told them to give it to Leka.

Wing and Harry I threatened with blatant exposure and to Hell with the consequences. I was not at all sure in my own mind if in fact I would have had sufficient strength of character to actually carry out the threat. But I must have convinced them, as they backed off rapidly. There was the somewhat tricky situation with regard to Su and Bee Yen. But once it had been firmly established that one was a raving nymphomaniac and that the other had no intention of marrying a man who had been busy having carnal knowledge of her twin sister, that too was allowed to quietly slip into oblivion. The whole rather sordid incident had been quickly slipped under the table and both young ladies had been shipped off to Singapore. There to continue their studies. Their mother, naturally, did not hold me in any high esteem and was out for blood. I had however become an embarrassment and Wing Ho was glad enough to back off. The vehicle was returned, but as I assumed Blossom’s position and took over his job, the white Crown magically appeared.

I suppose that I should have sat back, wiped a perspiring brow and thanked whatever lucky stars had been in my skies. And I would have done so if it had it not have been for Torrikesa. Far from carrying out her threat to kill me, she just disappeared. One second she was there, the next, gone and impossible to locate.

The sudden departure of Torrik devastated me. It was something for which I was unprepared. I had not realised just how much she had become part of my life. She had been a partner, a friend, a playmate, and a lover. I saw now that I had taken her presence for granted. I felt as if a part of me had died. I was despondent, lonely and frankly did not know how to cope with the situation. More so, as I knew that it was my actions that had engendered her leaving. There was no warning, no explosion of anger. She just left. Giving thought to what she had told me about her past life, I realised how much I had hurt her. How I had disappointed her. Naturally, I tried to find her to attempt to apologise and try to straighten things out. She was nowhere to be found. She had disappeared without trace.

I never got over the loss of not having her around me. I had fallen in love with her and had not recognised that I had done so. Sex is readily available in South East Asia, but I had found a women who loved me and I had been too blind to see it and too stupid to hold on to her. I never found another woman to take her place. I never required a photograph to remind me of her. I could picture here in my mind’s eye as if she stood before me. I could hear her tinkling laugh and I ached. The house, our home and my life were dead without her.

Naturally with the departure of Torrik, Leka wanted to move in and take over where she had left off. Surrender her virginity etc. She seemed to hold some strange and naive view that I would immediately fall madly in love with her. That we would live forever in some large house, as becoming in her limited and ingenuous out looks, that of a rich and brilliant foreigner. Have numerous offspring and eventually move to some Hollywood inspired life in the, West. I tried to do the decent thing with her and place her feet back on the ground. I attempted, as gently as I could to explain to her that I didn’t love her. That, I discovered only made things worse. Could I not learn to love her? She was after all, a virgin. Further more she loved me sufficient for two and all I was required to do was be kind to her and not to play around with other women.

I did not take from her the only thing she had to offer and firmly said no thank you, and I suppose in some ways another chance slipped through my fingers. In retrospect, like Lucy, she would have made a good and stable wife. I firmly believe she would have worked at any marriage. It was awareness and knowledge she lacked not intelligence. God alone knows where she is now.

With the loss of Torrik, some kind of madness overcame me. Whether I was trying to prove something to myself or to the world at large, I still don’t know. The Love Boat took on all the auspices of its former glory under the regime of Mad Max. Though I drew the line at the home video bit. I wasn’t into Twentieth Century Foxy Films. Women passed through its portals like the doors of a super market. I recall one evening, a Sunday. It had been a particularly arduous day. The paramour from the party of the previous evening had left at ten in the morning. Giving me sufficient time to prepare for a second young lady and the afternoon’s activities. It was whilst in mid thrust with the evening shift crewmember, it occurred to me that I was expending an awful lot of energy and not really enjoying myself. It crossed my mind to ask myself why exactly I was doing it and why did I bother? I never managed to supply myself with a suitable answer, and continued along the path of lust and self-gratification. Someone once asked me how many women had graced my bed. I found to my surprise that I didn’t know. I set about counting, but each time the correct total eluded me. I gave up. Another body and then another body, it became almost automatic.

I continued to search for Torrik. I could not believe that anyone could vanish so completely. It was not until I began to try to locate her that I began to understand just how little I knew about her. I had shown no interest in her background. Of her home and family, I knew nothing. Butet and Pela were of no use. Torrik had been a Batak / Chinese. They equally had no idea of where she came from, or to where she had gone.

The Pop Inn acquired a new manager. A Chinese lady who whilst being pleasant was at the same time equally vague and unhelpful. If she knew the where a bouts or Torrik, then with inscrutable oriental blandness, she was not telling. Perhaps she might be able to pass on a letter if she was under instructions not to inform me of Torrik’s address? She would see and maybe that might be possible. I wrote several letters and gave them to her to pass on. She assured me that they had been given to X who in turn would pass them to Y etc. I never received a reply. Eventually it dawned upon me how much I had hurt and wronged Torrik. It never occurred to me that perhaps my behavioural patterns were being relayed back to Torrik. If they were, then no wonder I received no replies. For if only the truth were reported, then that would have been sufficient to confirm all of Torrik’s worst beliefs. One cannot very well maintain a love for all animals and a gentleness of nature, and then be seen by the entire world to indulge in fox hunting and badger baiting. So her photographs and framed cross-stitch pictures remained hanging on the walls to remind and mock me. I could not bring myself to remove them. The pain never left me. It grew dull, but it was always there just below the surface. Not a day had passed since her leaving that I did not think of her and regret my thoughtlessness and stupidity.

Now that I had taken over Blossom’s position, my workload increased. So did the need for me to visit other sites. I was frequently out station. Always I used part of my time looking for Torrik; going to the sort of places that I knew would attract her. Hoping in my heart that some chance would allow us to meet up again. Indonesia consists of over 13,000 islands. Some of which are very large. It is spread over 4800 Km. of ocean and has a population in excess of 200,000,000 and those are only the ones that got counted. I stood a better chance of winning any one of the World’s lotteries.

My constant obsession with Torrik precluded my attempting any sensible relationship with any other female. Women, in fact became a commodity, to be used, enjoyed and passed on. The youngest Bridgeman had become both cynical and shallow. It was fortunate for me that my metabolism precluded me from becoming an alcoholic. So I was stuck with it. Once again I had allowed a very special woman to slip through my fingers because of my own stupidity. I told myself that I had survived without Asnita and could do so without Torrik. But my words had a hollow ring to them. I was very unhappy but was not going to be seen as being so to the outside world, and equally at the same time not being able to come to terms with my loss. I began a definite downward spiritual spiral.

I completed my first contract. I suppose looking back I was rather good at my work. I had no distractions, no home life and no real interests. To the outside world I was a social animal with a huge circle of friends. Always to be found with a new and pretty female on my arm. When alone though, I sat and brooded. Since I had no interest in my companions other than for sex, my only steady diversion was my work. This forced me to think about something other than my problems and occupied my time. As a consequence, I took pains to do my job well. Not out of genuine interest but because I had to get involved. Therapy all most. I was asked to extend my contract for a second two years. Having nowhere to go and nothing else to do, I agreed. I traded in the Crown for a very splendid, huge 4 wheel drive monster and continued my life of meaningless social activity. I dare say I must have met some very nice young ladies, statistically, it would have impossible to have not have done so. Frankly, I never bothered to investigate beyond their bras and panties.

I was due a months home leave. I had not actually given any thought to my future and had no plans. I suppose, looking back, I assumed that I would stay in South East Asia in some capacity or other. There was quite a boom on at the time and I did not think that I would have too much difficulty in finding another job in either Indonesia or Singapore. The thought of returning to the UK came as a bit of a shock and spurred me to do a bit of thinking and planning.

I had in the broadest sense of the word been keeping in touch with South Bank. But more in the manner of a post card from here and some photographs from some place else. I had never informed them of my relationship with Torrik. Anyway news from their end was all; Lucy has had a baby boy. He is a lovely little fellow, so good etc. etc. Since deep within my soul, I still resented Lucy, I had tended to push South Bank into some file all of its own. My mail to them tended therefore to be at a rather superficial level. Though I did send Uncle Gwyn fuller and more detailed descriptions of life in Indonesia. It would be fair though to say that in truth no one at South Bank had any real idea of what I was doing and generally must have retained the impression that all was well and that I was having a ball. The thought then of having to return there, maintain my carefree attitude, put up with some 13 month old squalling brat and all of that Lucy hero worship, did not appeal. I decided that South Bank was not for me and promptly cast my eyes around for some other diversion.

Now anyone in their right mind and having even only half a brain, would have managed, without too much difficulty, to have worked out that I was in fact in a rather nice position. My employer, via the British taxpayer, was about to hand me a large lump of folding cash in lieu of a return plane ticket to the UK. I was due a month’s paid leave, plus a bonus. I had a job to come back to. No bills or utilities to pay and I was single and as free as a bird. I could have gone to Peru, Mexico, taken a Caribbean cruise. The price of the ticket actually would have taken me right around the world, if I had done some deal with Singapore airlines. What did I do? I wondered what to do, and where to go, eventually settling, on the spur of the moment for New Zealand.

I had no idea that New Zealand was as far away as it is. That place is 1000 miles from anywhere. How the Hell anyone got there by sailing ship is beyond my comprehension. They must have bred them tough in those days. There is, I discovered, very little difference in flying from Singapore to Auckland as there is in flying from Singapore to London. Those hardy souls that do the trip as a one hop journey are flying for more than 24 hours. I can only assume that some of the genes from those early sailors are still floating around. That and swollen feet don’t bother them overmuch.

New Zealand is more English that the British. It’s a bit like Pembrokeshire in places, but with pig wire fences and more trees. Trees and deer are everywhere, they grow faster than the population. I found that all those jokes about going to New Zealand and finding it closed and will the last person to leave, please turn off the lights, have some foundation. Though I admit I went there with a jaundiced eye. I suppose the view that anyone retains of any place is emotive based upon how did they feel when they were there? Consequently, it is not a good idea to ask me about my impressions of Leeds. I have been there once, on a wet Sunday’s evening in November, when the car broke down. Leeds in my book therefore sucks. And so it was with New Zealand.

I took the train to Rotorua and looked at the boiling mud. I had seen boiling mud before. Believe me, one lot of boiling mud is much like the next lot. Lake Taupo was next on the agenda and I ended up down on the West coast in Wanganui. Wanganui whilst not unpleasant, can not really be described as the fun city of bright lights and wild debauchery. It’s more your solid citizen, who has a preference for sweet New Zealand beer, Ford Cortinas and church on a Sunday. I was lonely and bored out of my tiny mind. I found a travel agent.

The girl behind the counter was not your more usual run of the mill, hail, hearty, chop four cords of wood for wet back and eat a couple of sheep before breakfast, type of New Zealand lass. She was in fact rather mousy. Small, skinny and with large spectacles, also earnest and helpful. Within the limits of her capabilities that was.

I’m looking for a distraction. I waded in with no preamble. The mouse shrank a little and offered a nervous, What sort of distraction? I realised that I was perhaps coming over as sexual deviant with a penchant for a skinny little bird with big specs. You know, something to do. I’m listening to myself go mad in this place. I waved an expressive arm around me. Oh, a holiday. She brightened and looked relieved. The Milford Trail is nice this time of year. What’s the Milford Trail? It’s a long walk on South Island. You have to be careful though. Quite a few people have died of starvation along its route. I got the impression that she regarded the idea of starving to death on some ramble, gave it appeal.

Maybe I should take some friends with me and then I can eat them if I get a bit too peckish? I paused for a reaction. Mouse looked blankly back. When I said I was looking for a distraction, cannibalism was not forefront in my mind.

She still looked nonplussed. Then, as if struck by a sudden brainwave, Rotorua? She offered brightly and sought out a leaflet.

I’ve been there. I said. Smells of bad eggs. I wrinkled my nose. Yes. She agreed seriously, adding informatively, It’s all the sulphur you know. And there I was thinking it was a diet of baked beans and boiled cabbage. I shook my head as if in wonder. I was thinking more of something more lively, exotic even?

Oh, like abroad? I nodded. How about Indonesia? She produced a Garuda holiday package brochure. I sighed, I live there. This seemed to confuse her and she fiddled with her cardigan, finally asking, Are you here on holiday then? Yes. I nodded, And bored out of my scull. This obviously only served to muddy the waters even more. Mouse looked perplexed. Most people who are on holiday don’t go looking for a holiday. It began as a firm statement but ended up more as self-addressed query. She thought of the complexities of my situation and then said questioningly, as if fearing my answer, I have a package tour to Phuket. It’s in Thailand. She offered as way of explanation. Yes I know. What’s the single fare? Oh you can’t do that. Mouse exclaimed. It’s a package. She was quite adamant. If one signed on, then it was a round trip. What would happen if I died whilst I was there? I questioned. She was after all the first diversion I had met since landing in the country. She considered this and then said firmly, We fly your body back here. I gave up.

OK. I tell you what. Let’s book the first available out of here on this ticket. Give me a brochure for Phuket and I will find my own way around there once I arrive. I passed her my air ticket. She looked at me oddly and asked me if I really lived in Indonesia? I softened a little and nodded. Honest, cross my heart. She smiled. That must be exciting. She said. Then, a little bewildered, Why did you come here?"

I don’t honestly know. I have never been here and I suppose if I had come with a friend, it would have been fine, but I’m on my own. I guess I’m lonely and New Zealand reminds me of Britain a lot. Anyway I’m not enjoying myself and I feel more at home in South East Asia, so better I go back. I ended with a shrug.

What do you do? She asked. So I told her. She listened attentively, all big eyes behind her even bigger specs, as I briefly described my life. I gave no embellishment and was careful to leave out any tales of daring do.

What an exciting life. She said wistfully, No wonder you are bored here. She gave her wonderment face, and then added. I get lonely too. She looked a little sad. It’s not nice is it? I have never been anywhere. She added lamely. I warmed to mouse, she was quite frank. Come with me. I said flippantly. Don’t be silly. She laughed. OK then. Let me take you out tonight to where ever and whatever bright lights this town offers. Are you serious? She looked both interested and incredulous. One hundred percent lady. You name it and we will do it.

Her name was Doreen, she was 19, and for entertainment she went to some Christian fellowship group. We went to an early film, ate a pizza and caught a beer before the pubs closed. Along with the rest of Wanganui! I must have impressed her with my worldliness and exotic life style as she kissed me ardently, if in a somewhat inexperienced manner and took my address. She wrote me a quite a few earnest little letters too, though eventually gave up when I failed to reply. The Doreens’ of this world I have found love to dream of a wild and exciting life, but would never be able to cope with one. For all that, she was a nice little girl and no doubt just the sort of person of whom my mother would have approved. She and Leka, I mused shared a lot in common.

Phuket was much more to my liking and I was not short of things to do nor willing companions with whom to do it. I returned to Sumatra and took up where I had left off. Having kept my hand in so to speak.

Rocky married Butet and they moved to Singapore. He had joined some helicopter company that was based there. He spent his days flying choppers out to the off shore oil rigs and platforms dotted around the area and returned home each night to the lithe brown arms of Butet. They had a nice apartment in upper Buket Timur Road and seemed very happy. I envied them.

Pela had a son and she and Dougie moved to West Australia. They based themselves in Perth and he was involved in drilling for oil and gas off the West Australian Shelf.

Dingo and Julia disappeared to Australia too. Quite suddenly, out of the, Old Asia Hands there was only Jumbo and myself remaining.

Kevin continued to star in Jakarta as, The Biggest Swinger In Town. I suppose in my own way I played out a similar role in Medan. The difference being that he obviously enjoyed and lived the part. I only acted it out in company, and knew not what else to do.

I kept a watchful eye on activities in Padang whilst at the same time steering a careful course away from Wing Ho or any other situations that could likely lead to a compromising situation. I also kept well clear of The Gang, Mia and Leka. In fact I kept away from all and any attempts to get close to anyone. I had become a very public but equally private animal. No relationships. Was my motto. Short term rental’s only need apply. Read the invisible sign over my head. Life was not unpleasant. In fact, far from it. I had a very nice house with a swimming pool. A large vehicle that could just about go any place I cared to drive it. Plenty of money and an endless supply of nubile bedtime companions. It was just meaningless and almost boring. Certainly diversionary trips into the jungle, diving climbing volcanoes etc. were interesting. But I had done it all before and without my old friends and Torrik beside me for