met Bob; that’s how my life changed. We both wanted beer, I offered him a glass of arrack, he accepted. It was a fork in the road: once the decision had been reached and I had been taken, more or less been frogmarched onto the path less travelled by, there was no going back. And that made all the difference.
This strange and unexpected journey began, bizarrely enough, with a visit to Sam, my cockroach-killing friend from Lamma Island. I had business in town one Saturday, and finished a little before noon. I had an inspiration: Sam usually worked on Saturday morning, so I would collecthim and buy him a beer, and then he would buy me a beer and then I would buy him a beer: and so a pleasant afternoon was in prospect for us both.
I had this brilliant idea as I was passing the building on Hong Kong Island that housed the office of his advertising company, so rather than telephoning, I took the lift up. It being a Saturday, there was no receptionist, so I opened the office door in a matey fashion and asked for Sam. He wasn’t there. Ah well, never mind, I could always buy my own beer. I said farewell and turned to leave. “Aren’t you Simon Barnes?”
I admitted that this was the case. “Would you be interested in doing some work for us?” I was a freelance writer: I was interested in doing work for anyone on any subject for 50 cents a word minimum. They had a contract with Korean Airlines: would I write some copy for their in-flight magazine? Nine 500-word profiles on Asian cities?
Not a problem. I had even been to six of the cities. In this bustling metropolis, ancient and modern exist side by side. I could do that.
75 cents a word?
And I left.
By the time the lift hit the ground floor, I realised I had missed a trick. This was a bloody airline contract, after all, and airlines have bloody aeroplanes. I ran my eye down the list of nine cities. It rested on one of the three I hadn’t been to. Colombo. I called back up from the phone in thelobby: “How about a barter deal?”
“What had you in mind?”
“Two return tickets to Sri Lanka.”
So we went. Me and Cindy. Cindy my – to put this briefly – love, my wife, my life, mother of our children, my for-all-time companion and friend. At this stage we had known each other a few weeks, but I knew more or less all of those things already. And so we spent a few more weeks arguing and laughing and loving our way round the lovely and troubled island of Sri Lanka.
By the time we reached the beerless rest-house, we had been there for some time. When we felt in need of a treat, we stayed at a rest-house: places that had been built for colonial chaps to spend the night and take tiffin and a noggin or two when up-country. These buildings had an airiness and spaciousness that you don’t find in places designed for air-conditioning, not that we could afford to stay in places that had air-conditioning. Even a rest-house was push-the-boat-out time, but we had decided that we deserved it on this occasion. It was an epochal decision.
There were two other guests, both English, a man and a woman, travelling independently. Bob was, I suppose, in his early 60s, and possessed of all the gregariousness of a man who lived and travelled alone. He was an unstoppable talker, and even before we spoke, I liked him hugely, because of the zillion watts of good cheer he was firing out in all directions. That’s why I offered the drink. Thewoman was maybe ten years younger, quietly capable, a good and experienced traveller. I overheard the exchange with the waiter as she and Bob requested beer and the dreadful news came back.
So I came to the rescue. I explained that panic could be avoided: we could order bottles of soft drinks, politely insisting that the glasses and the bottles came separately. We could then mix the soft drinks with diamond -hard arrack in whatever proportions we chose. We ordered soda, ginger ale, lemonade. I passed around the arrack. We did it again, and then again.
This strange and unexpected journey began, bizarrely enough, with a visit to Sam, my cockroach-killing friend from Lamma Island. I had business in town one Saturday, and finished a little before noon. I had an inspiration: Sam usually worked on Saturday morning, so I would collecthim and buy him a beer, and then he would buy me a beer and then I would buy him a beer: and so a pleasant afternoon was in prospect for us both.
I had this brilliant idea as I was passing the building on Hong Kong Island that housed the office of his advertising company, so rather than telephoning, I took the lift up. It being a Saturday, there was no receptionist, so I opened the office door in a matey fashion and asked for Sam. He wasn’t there. Ah well, never mind, I could always buy my own beer. I said farewell and turned to leave. “Aren’t you Simon Barnes?”
I admitted that this was the case. “Would you be interested in doing some work for us?” I was a freelance writer: I was interested in doing work for anyone on any subject for 50 cents a word minimum. They had a contract with Korean Airlines: would I write some copy for their in-flight magazine? Nine 500-word profiles on Asian cities?
Not a problem. I had even been to six of the cities. In this bustling metropolis, ancient and modern exist side by side. I could do that.
75 cents a word?
And I left.
By the time the lift hit the ground floor, I realised I had missed a trick. This was a bloody airline contract, after all, and airlines have bloody aeroplanes. I ran my eye down the list of nine cities. It rested on one of the three I hadn’t been to. Colombo. I called back up from the phone in thelobby: “How about a barter deal?”
“What had you in mind?”
“Two return tickets to Sri Lanka.”
So we went. Me and Cindy. Cindy my – to put this briefly – love, my wife, my life, mother of our children, my for-all-time companion and friend. At this stage we had known each other a few weeks, but I knew more or less all of those things already. And so we spent a few more weeks arguing and laughing and loving our way round the lovely and troubled island of Sri Lanka.
By the time we reached the beerless rest-house, we had been there for some time. When we felt in need of a treat, we stayed at a rest-house: places that had been built for colonial chaps to spend the night and take tiffin and a noggin or two when up-country. These buildings had an airiness and spaciousness that you don’t find in places designed for air-conditioning, not that we could afford to stay in places that had air-conditioning. Even a rest-house was push-the-boat-out time, but we had decided that we deserved it on this occasion. It was an epochal decision.
There were two other guests, both English, a man and a woman, travelling independently. Bob was, I suppose, in his early 60s, and possessed of all the gregariousness of a man who lived and travelled alone. He was an unstoppable talker, and even before we spoke, I liked him hugely, because of the zillion watts of good cheer he was firing out in all directions. That’s why I offered the drink. Thewoman was maybe ten years younger, quietly capable, a good and experienced traveller. I overheard the exchange with the waiter as she and Bob requested beer and the dreadful news came back.
So I came to the rescue. I explained that panic could be avoided: we could order bottles of soft drinks, politely insisting that the glasses and the bottles came separately. We could then mix the soft drinks with diamond -hard arrack in whatever proportions we chose. We ordered soda, ginger ale, lemonade. I passed around the arrack. We did it again, and then again.
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