I was working for the Department of Natural Resources and Energy, which is just a fancy, bureaucratic way of saying “Forest Rangers.” It was a great job, no three ways about it, one that I returned to every summer of university despite the low pay and the tongue twisting effort of answering the phone with a perky: “Good Afternoon, Department of Natural Resources and Energy.” The real advantage of the job was that the “Ranger Station” is located right next door to my house. Every morning, I would walk across the lawn to work. I remember one morning I woke up at 7:56 and got to work on time at 8:00. The commute was a killer, especially if there was a lot of dog-poop to jump over. I was technically hired as a computer guy, office assistant type, but the great part was that if I got bored, I could head out into the field with one of the guys. So I was often out traipsing through the woods, rocketing down old roads on quads, canoeing to old camp holdings or fighting forest fires. Great job I tells ya, one that always impressed my city-slicker friends.

Now, one thing that a lot of people don’t realize is that the Forest Rangers are responsible for clearing up large-scale road-kill. The Department of Transportation handles all the small animals, or “shovel-jobs” if you prefer, so basically, anything smaller than a coyote. We handled all the big game (deer, bear, moose, cougar etc.) Such large animals can be a real problem, since our high-speed highways, thick coastal fog, and abundance of wildlife make for a pretty dangerous cocktail.

So there I was, on the side of the highway, looking down at what was once assuredly a moose. I was with Terry, one of the Rangers I had known forever; he had watched me learn to ride my bike in the station’s parking lot. We backed up the truck and trailer and adjusted the winch. We hefted up the moose’s head, which is no mean feat, and secured the cable around its neck. Terry started the winch and I stood by to guide the animal up the ramp as we ungloriously yanked it up by its head.

The winch started to overheat with the strain of hauling the huge animal and we were forced to move the moose up the ramp in fits and starts. Terry would wait for the winch to cool and then give it another burst, hauling the moose up about six inches at a time. We were both starting to curse in frustration when I noticed a car zip past us, swerve suddenly to take the next exit, and come back down the other side of the highway until they found a place to turn and pull up behind us.

“What the hell is this?” asked Ranger-Terry. The car had Ontario plates, and a young couple jumped out with YUPPY written on their foreheads in indelible ink. “I think they’re tourists,” I replied. “Weeell, shiiit,” said Terry, rolling his eyes and giving the moose another pull up the ramp. I walked back to try to head off the couple at the pass.

“Hi there!” shouted the woman, “We’re from Toronto!” Now, that’s a label no one would self-apply where I come from. “Hi,” I said, giving a half-hearted wave, “I’m from right here.” The man grinned and said, “We’re on our honeymoon… we’re from Toronto!” I looked from one to the other, “You sure are,” I replied. I tried to cut between them and the shattered animal, but the woman was already peering over my shoulder. “We’ve never seen a moose before!” she said excitedly, “That’s a moose right?” The husband spoke up condescendingly, “Of course it’s a moose honey,” looking at me and rolling his eyes. I raised my hand and tried to speak with a little authority. “Look folks, I really don’t think this is the moose you want to see.” I’ve always found that when you talk with authority it’s good to call people “folks.”

“No, no,” insisted the wife, “we saw one from a distance once, but it was far away.” I decided not to tell her that things at a distance generally are. “Well, listen, there’s a zoo about half an hour up the road…” “No, no, not the zoo, that’s not the same. We want to see a REAL moose, in the wild.” I was sure that my face was betraying my disbelief. I tried to spell it out to them, “But… well, at least it would be, you know, walking around.”

There was nothing for it. The couple followed me back to where the moose was lying, halfway up our ramp. A pink jelly was oozing from several contusions, one of the legs flopped around like a rag-doll, and slimy green innards were spilling from several old and new orifices. I looked up at Terry on the truck and shrugged. He cursed and turned back to work on the winch. “Wow! Look at that!” said the husband. The couple seemed completely unaware of the mangled condition of the animal. “How much do you think it weighs?” asked the man. I looked to Terry for an estimate, but it was clear that he wanted nothing to do with this. “Oh, I dunno,” I said, “maybe 600 pounds?” Of course, I had no idea, I can’t even judge the weight of a package of hamburger. The woman was bent over the moose, inspecting it carefully, “Are you sure it’s dead?” she asked. I stopped short. “Pardon?” She seemed very genuine. “Are you sure it’s not still alive?” she asked again. I turned away to see if Terry was hearing this. “Well, you know, I’m just a summer student, I’m no expert…” I said, trying not to lose it. They both turned to Terry. I had to hand it to him, he looked at them for a long moment and then said, “Ma’am, in my professional opinion, this animal is dead.”

Seemingly satisfied, the woman ran back to the car and came back with a video camera. This was getting out of control. She started her narrative, “Here’s the moose we saw in Nova Scotia…” “New Brunswick” I broke in. “New Brunswick…. And here are the Forest Rangers.” She started panning over the moose and zooming in. Terry had had enough. He wanted to get the damn moose loaded and put an end to the stage show. He started up the winch, and with a scream of engine and cable, the moose lurched six inches up the ramp.

To be fair, we probably should have warned them. Despite our assurances, and the overwelming physical evidence, the poor woman must have suspected that the moose just maybe, possibly, was still alive, because when the winch screamed and the animal jumped up the ramp, she screamed and jumped even louder and higher, and threw her hands in the air. I give a lot of credit to her husband, who watched agape as the video camera flew through the air in a perfect parabola, but somehow managed to catch it before it became as mangled as the moose. The woman was hysterical, I was shouting, “It’s dead… It’s dead.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. The couple scrambled back to the car without saying goodbye or thank-you for seeing their first REAL moose, which I thought was a little rude.

Man, would I ever love to see that video.

Subaru: Where’d you guys go to dinner last night?

Me: A Chinese place called, “Yuan Tung.” Pretty tasty.

Subaru: Yeah, that’s an old Karachi favourite.

Me: I wouldn’t know.

Subaru: No you wouldn’t.

Me: Right. Well, it’s across the street from another Chinese restaurant called “Little China.” But I didn’t want to go there because I’ve heard they had some big trouble a little while back.

Subaru: Ha! Big Trouble in Little China.

Me: You nailed that one.

Subaru: Ya, that was a classic film.

Me: Never seen it, I just make jokes about the title… Kurt Russel right?

Subaru: Yeah, basically, there’s this demon loose in China-Town…

Me: Wait, I think you mean, “Little China”… hey wouldn’t it be funny if there was actually a Little China full of Chinese midgets?

Subaru: Shut up Dave.

Me: What? It just strikes me as something those wily Chinese might do. Anyway, there’s a demon…?

Subaru: Right. And the demon has been hunting for thousands of years for a green eyed Chinese girl.

Me: Virgin?

Subaru: Couldn’t hurt. So Kurt Russel’s friend is dating a green-eyed, Chinese girl.

Me: Convenient.

Subaru: So the Kung-Fu guys that worship the demon go after the girl, and the Kung-Fu guys that support Kurt Russel go after them.

Me: Were those cats as fast as lightening?

Subaru: Ya. It was a little bit frightening.

Me: So then?

Subaru: So then, I dunno, a whole lot of shit goes down.

Me: Ok, so two Kung-Fu gangs are battling an ancient demon for a green-eyed girl and then a whole lot of shit goes down.

Subaru: Pretty Much. Oh, and it also features an early appearance of Kim Cattrall.

Me: Who’s Kim Cattrall.

Subaru: The old, slutty one on Sex and the City.

Me: Isn’t that all of them?

Subaru: The oldest and sluttiest.

Me: Oh right. You’re a big fan are ya?

Subaru: I’m not the one who’s seen every episode of Desperate Housewives.

Me: I’m telling you, it’s a good show! And since I’m an honest guy, I’ll tell you that while you were at work last Saturday I watched Season Six of Sex and the City.

Subaru: What!

Me: In my defence, there are a lot of naked women in that show.

Subaru: A lot of naked men too.

Me: That’s why you watch it, you mean?

Subaru: Shut up.

Me: You shut up.

Subaru: Anyway, now I’m thinking we’d better find a copy of “Big Trouble…”

Me: Oh yeah, sounds like a quality film. We should track it down.

Subaru: But we won’t.

Me: No, no we won’t.

But speaking of shocking experiences… In my entire life, I think I have electrocuted myself maybe three times (in a minor way obviously, otherwise I’d be dead, which makes it harder to blog). Three times, that is, before I came to Pakistan. In the year that I’ve been here, I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve blitzed myself. I’m telling you, I’ve been shocked so many times I feel like Galvani’s Frog (wow, that was a little obscure).

The worst occasion was when I reached blindly under a cabinet (like an idiot) to plug in my cell-phone charger. Somehow, I managed to touch something I shouldn’t have and wound up on my ass in the middle of the floor. The best part was that I was on the phone at the time, which was the reason for my blind plugging attempt. I wish I had a recording of that conversation that went a little like this:

Dave: Yeah, well, I think that on Friday we should probably try to …BzZOWP!!

(THUMP)

Mbbs: We should what? Dave… Dave…?

Even funnier, was the time that I was trying to plug a USB device into the back of the computer in my room. I was in one of those awkward, leaning over the desk, craning my neck, reaching in behind the computer type positions. I couldn’t find the right hole by feel (no comments necessary) and so I leaned forward to try to see the back panel. I located the socket and as I tried to plug it in, my thumb touched the back of the computer and I felt the throbbing sensation of an electric shock. I was startled, and tried to pull back, but because of my awkward position, I ended up falling forward onto the desk. My hand slipped further down, resulting in a heavier shock, and because my head was behind the computer, I kind of fell sideways against it. This meant that not only was my hand throbbing with electricity, but so was my face where it was pressed against the metal like a kid against the school-bus window. I don’t know if you’ve ever received minor electric shocks simultaneously to your right hand and your left cheekbone, but I wouldn’t generally recommend it. For the rest of the night I was clasping and un-clasping my hand and my cheek kept twitching. I must have looked like a squinty-eyed gun-fighter in the wild-west.

But to be fair, I have to say that all my shocking encounters are not entirely my fault. Electrical sockets here really are ridiculously dangerous. Nothing is ever grounded properly so you never know when you’re going to catch a current (once I was shaving and touched my mirror and got a shock). The two-prong, rounded plugs only barely fit the sockets. They dangle from the wall like limp, exhausted snakes hanging on to their stubborn prey by their fangs. Just about every time you plug something in, there’s a blue flash to tell you that it’s working. You have to tweak and twiddle the plugs into place, so that the connection is made, and then the next day, you have to do it all again because the cleaning lady has knocked them all out of place with her broom.

So yeah, that’s my latest complaint about Pakistan: Bad electrical sockets. I blame the Brits, it’s their standard after all. I’m just sick of getting shocked. I would call someone and complain, but I just can’t get up the courage to plug in my phone.

At least all these electric shocks haven’t electric shocks haven’t really affected me affected me in any real way.

Anyway, this particular game we were up against one of our principal rivals from St. Andrews. The last meeting of our classy, gentlemen’s teams had led to three separate fights, one of which involved me being forced to knock a guy off of my brother where he was kneeling on his chest about to pummel him (although I bet my brother still would have got the better of him). So, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the game.

We were warming up, taking shots on goal, when one of our balls sailed over the fence and into the yard opposite. Charles, a childhood friend of mine, started over to retrieve it because it happened to be his own ball. But just as he was crossing the street, in a streak of grey and pink, an old lady ran out, grabbed the soccer ball and then ran back into the house. Charles stopped in the middle of the road and turned back to us with a look that would have perfectly accompanied the phrase, “What the fuck?”

You see, St. Andrews is a resort town. It is a tourist destination. It is the site of the Fairmont Algonquin hotel and an international golf-course (where my canoe and I once pitched a tent). It is a beautiful location, there’s no doubt about it, but for me the place always rings a little false. The town swells in the summertime when all the Americans come north to their summer homes. My town, on the other hand, is just as beautiful, but more like a country cousin. My little town is quaint; St. Andrews is faux-quaint. The way to make this distinction is by counting the gift shops. Who needs 24 gift shops selling the same thing on one street? Anyway, the town has a reputation locally as being snobby and elitist, and like most reputations, some of that is completely undeserved, but then, some of it isn’t. There are some great people who live in St. Andrews, but as we were about to find out, the lady who had just athletically whisked away Charles’ ball was not one of them.

Charles continued across the street and knocked on the door. Eventually, the lady opened the door, releasing a small white poodle that immediately started barking and relentlessly jumping on Charles’ legs. Ever the gentleman, Charles began, “I’m sorry Ma’am, but it seems our ball landed in your yard, and I was wondering if you might have found it?”
“Yes I did,” stated the woman, “but you little bastards can forget about getting your ball back.”
This took Charles aback, not being used to hearing the elderly refer to him as a little bastard. But still, he maintained his composure. “We are very sorry Ma’am. But you see, that’s actually my own personal ball, and I’d like to get it back.”
“Young man, there is no way in hell you will ever see your ball again.”
“Look, I understand you’re upset, but maybe you should talk to the town about raising the fence around the field or stringing a net or something…”
“The town?” she sneered, “Those bastards are the worst bastards of them all.”
Charles took this in stride, but the dog jumping up his leg was starting to annoy him. “Listen,” he began.
“Don’t you “listen” me!” she shouted in a shrill voice. “I’m not putting up with this anymore, you can all go fuck yourselves!”

At this point, I heard escalating voices and started over there. I arrived just in time to hear Charles shout, “Listen you crotchety old whore! You go into your musty, old-lady house right now and get my god-damn soccer ball!”
The woman gasped… so did I. “Chuck!” I said, completely at a loss for what to say.
The woman recovered first. “Have respect for your elders, young man!” she squeaked.
“Fuck You.” said Charles.
“That ball was on my property,” said the woman, “It’s mine now!”
“Fine” said Charles as he bent down and scooped up the annoying, little dog, “You keep the ball, I’m taking your dog.”
“You can’t do that!” she screamed.
“Watch me! Your dog is jumping all over me, so he’s my property now… See ya.” Charles turned and started down the walkway. I stood rooted to the spot.
“I’ll call the police you little bastard-shit-head!” she screamed at his retreating form.
“You go right ahead, you old bag!” Shouted Charles.

The police arrived shortly. The officer in charge went inside and retrieved our ball, begging us to try our damnedest not to let it land in this yard again. “That woman,” he confided in us, “is a God-Damn crazy lady.”

We thanked the officer, and headed back to our already delayed game, heady with the victory that a bunch of guys in their twenties and thirties had just achieved in getting our game ball back from a mean old lady.

I know that if you’ve been in this part of the world for any amount of time, you have probably been invited to a Pakistani wedding. This can be a confusing time for you. The cross cultural mish-mash of Islamic and Hindi celebrations that make up a Pakistani wedding can be enough to leave any self-respecting Gora reeling. I see you there at the wedding functions, a little to the left of the entrance: a group of nervous, uncomfortable white people, standing there like a wilting patch of daisies in a dazzling, showy garden. But never fear. With both the primary and secondary Pakistani wedding seasons pretty much behind me, I am here to help. Although Pakistanis love to have you at their weddings, they will also be very much amused by how you will handle yourself. For this reason, no one will ever give you a heads up on what the hell is going on. That’s where The Dave Guide comes into play. Here are a few excerpts to get you started:

Functions:
Ok, the first thing you’re going to notice is that you invitation includes not one reception, but several. Don’t panic. You don’t really have to go to all of them. You can pick and choose. You’re probably thinking, wait a minute, I’m used to one service, one reception, one drunken, inappropriate uncle, about 200 guests, a nice dinner and some dancing. Well, a Pakistani wedding is just like that, except you do it five or six times.

Although the sheer number of events may overwhelm you, it helps to realize that they are all basically the same, just with different ingredients. I think of them in two categories, depending on what I have to wear. In the first group, you’ve got the Mehndi, Mayun, Dohlki, Kawali (Kavali, Quwwali… I dunno) and other such events, to which I would wear a nice Shalwar Kameez. In the second group you’ve got the Nikkah, Rukhsati, Valima and any other dinner type affairs, to which I would wear a suit and tie.

Personally, I prefer the first group of functions because they’re more casual, more colourful, more culturally interesting, there’s more going on, I get to wear fancy pyjamas, and everything is just much more gay (in the old fashioned sense of the word, not the make-over/track-lighting sense of the word). The Mehndi is the big show, with hundreds of people, more colour than a troupe of clowns playing paintball, and lots of dancing, partying and food. The others are kind of like variations on the theme. A Mayun is like a small Mehndi, except you usually only have one side of the family and everyone wears yellow; a dohlki is a like small Mehndi with a drum, a tambourine and some dancing; a kawwali is like a small Mehndi with a cool, trance concert of religious music.

The second group of functions are still interesting if you’ve never been to one, but they are stuffier, and generally less fascinating. The Nikkah is the signing of the actual wedding contract, which is culturally interesting, but dry as unbuttered toast. The reception or Rukhsati is like the giving away of the bride, so everyone cries for good measure. The Valima is a celebration of the consummation of the wedding, which you would think would be exciting, but the novelty wears off quickly. The couple are usually smiling, which I hope is because of the consummation part, but is probably because they know that the Valima is the last function they’ll have to endure. I tend to get bored at Valimas and start hoping someone will run in with a blood-spattered bed sheet and yell, “It is accomplished!” But unfortunately, those days are gone (I wonder why?).

These functions usually involve a lot of mingling and small talk, and “Why are you in Pakistan?” type scenes. My general irritation with such situations, however, is balanced out by the fact that I look fantastic in a suit…. But then again, I look pretty classy in a Shalwar Kameez as well. I dress up nice.

Keeping Up Appearances
Whichever functions you choose, you should try to pay your respects to the bride and groom. They’ll be the ones locked in one corner, their faces masked in smiles barely betraying the fact that they are probably the most miserable people in attendance. They have to sit on a bench somewhere, while everyone else is having a great time, and endure one group photo for every possible combination of family and friends. They go through more film than an Imax movie, and I’m sure Kodak could stay in business just based on profits from Desi weddings. If you are searching for the happy couple, one helpful tip is to look for the groom first, because there’s a good chance you won’t recognise the bride. She’ll be beautiful, without a doubt, but with the elaborate dress and heavy make-up and jewellery, you’ll probably catch yourself thinking, “Wait a minute, is that her?”

Timing:
This is perhaps the most important category. If you mess up the timings, you can throw off your whole night. You may have received an invitation card listing the time of function as, for example, 8 pm. It may or may not have also included the word “sharp.” Ignore this completely. It is a cunning ruse. Despite all your instincts, you must resist any punctual inclinations. Even if you are thinking of being fashionably late, and show up an hour after the given time, chances are you’ll be helping the caterers set up tables. Here’s the way I look at it. If you would like to make an early appearance, then you should plan to arrive two hours after the time on the card. If you’d like to arrive with everyone else, go with a three-hour delay. Don’t worry too much about it. Chances are the bride and or groom will not arrive before midnight. As for the original time on the card, well, there is no rational explanation, unless of course, it’s some sort of ingenious stratagem to make all the White Folk look foolish. As if we need any help.

Eating:
Whatever you do, make sure that you eat before the wedding. This is imperative. In fact, you may even want to stop for drive-thru on the way there. All night long, you will hear how food is about to be served, but you should not expect it to make an appearance much before 1 am. Food at a wedding is more elusive than environmental issues at a Republican convention. From what I can gather, a wedding is often judged on the quality of its food. Ask someone how a wedding was and they’ll probably say, “Oh it was very nice… good food.” One entertainment, if you still have the energy, is to watch the mass exodus after food is served. Most people are so hungry, they won’t leave until food is served, but as soon as they get the chow, they’re out the door. Since the hosts know that everyone will leave after they eat, they wait until 1 in the morning on a weeknight to serve it, and since all the guests know that food won’t be served before 1 in the morning, they won’t show up to the wedding before 11:30. You see how these things happen?

Dancing:
If you are, ahem, fortunate enough to be close enough to the bride or groom, you may find yourself corralled into a choreographed dance. Don’t panic. There is a very good chance that your Pakistani friends are also extremely bad at this. All it means is that you attend several “Dance Practices” before the wedding. A Dance Practice is an interesting gathering. The first hour is spent calling everyone to find out why they’re not yet at dance practice. The second hour involves discussing what should be ordered to eat for dance practice. The third hour usually involves someone discussing how everyone should be practising dancing, while someone else (depending on your friends) tries to track down some beer. There will be some talk of selecting songs, a lot of talk about how bad your dance will be, and then you’re done. Don’t worry that you haven’t learned the dance, you’ll just get pulled up on stage one way or another anyway, so just go with it.

Try not to be alarmed when you get pulled up on stage to dance. Just be prepared in the knowledge that it will most likely happen. Everyone loves to see Whitey dance. Here are a few tips. Smile broadly, as if there is nothing you would rather be doing in your life. Shrug your shoulders a lot, as if you have absolutely no idea what’s going on. Every once and a while, squat suddenly and throw your arms out like one of those Ukranian dancer dudes. Finally, if you are completely lost, throw both arms in the air, stick out your index fingers and jump up and down on one foot. This will always please the masses.

As a result of the strange hours, I was often riding the C-Train back into the city late at night. On one of those trips, two old drunken bums stumbled on board and sat directly across from me. I sighed, since up until that point, the ride had been urine free. The downtown core of Calgary is linked by a “free-fare zone” for the C-train, which is cool, but the old drunks sometimes take advantage and ride up and down 7th avenue to stay warm.

I settled back into the regular transit stare at the window across from me, fascinated that my reflection somehow looked better in a subway window than it does in my bathroom mirror. Suddenly one of the drunks, weaving back and forth, hollers at me, “What’na hell you lookin at?” I realized I had been staring at the window above his head. I shrugged and said, “Nothin,” realizing as I did, that had I been looking at him this answer would have been quite clever. “You wanna go? Is that it?” he yelled at me, attempting to stand up and failing. I explained that I clearly did not want to go, while simulataneously trying to judge how far it would be to the next stop.

Suddenly the other man jumped into action, grabbed his friend and shook him. “What the hell are you doin?” he shouted in his face, “are ya tryin to screw everything up?” He turned to me across the aisle, and with a gesture of supplication said in his gravel racked voice, “Noooo Offence Meant” and then repeated, “No offence meant” I nodded, and he turned back to his friend. “You don’t understand the world man,” he said, “You think everything’s going to go your way, you think life’s all a bunch of fawkin roses!” I highly doubted that this was exactly what the man thought of his life, but his friend continued, “But someday, everything’s gonna be shit, and this guy…” he said, jerking his thumb in my direction, “this guy ain’t gonna be there to help you.” They looked in my direction, and the only thing I could think of doing was shaking my head solemnly. “You see!” “Ok, ok,” said the now calm drunk, “I’m sorry.” “What!” shouted his adamant friend, “You call that an apology!” Then he quickly turned to me and once again extended his hands, patted the air as if he were telling an entire roomful of people to calm down, and said again, “Nooo Offence meant… no offence meant.” Then he turned his attention back to his friend, “You see this guy (me again), he’s going to be famous (really?), he’s going to be filthy rich (sounds good), he’s going to be down there in L.A. or Hollywood or Reno making a fortune (Reno?), and he’s not going to be there to help you out, he’s not going to give a damn about you. That’s how the world works! It’s the circle of life, Man! You were rude to this guy, now he’s going to be rich and you’ve got a whole mess a shit coming your way!” I really didn’t follow this logic path, but his once belligerent friend seemed spellbound. “Ok,” he said, “I’m sorry I was rude.” “That’s ok,” I said. For good measure, the drunk philosopher king turned to me once again, “Nooo Offence meant” he crooned, “… no offence meant.”

The original rude drunk seemed to forget about the whole thing immediately, he looked around and asked his buddy something about where they were getting off. His friend looked pained and immediately turned to me with his hands out, “Nooo offence meant… no offence meant.” By this time, I was baffled and trying my hardest not to laugh. A couple got on the train carrying a lamp from The Bay department store. “Hey, Nice Lamp!” shouted the drunk. I knew what was coming. His pal jumped into the middle of the train, threw his hands out desperately, patted the air and said, “Nooo offence meant… no offence meant.” I snorted into my gloves and tried to turn the laughter into a coughing fit.

Finally I reached my stop at the far end of the free-fare zone. And of course, this was also my drunken friends’ departure point. When the preaching drunk realized I was behind them at the doorway, he threw his friend roughly against the wall, gave me a quick maitre d’ bow and gestured that I should get off first. I stepped off, and started walking home. I looked back and saw them staggering on the platform, and in the distance heard the drawn out shout, “Noooo Offence Meant…..”

None taken… none taken.

Now let’s pause here for a moment, and refresh the fact that I despise snakes. Granted I tend to exaggerate my hatred, but nevertheless, I have no love lost for poisonous serpents. I just wanted to point out that my sister and two park rangers at Kibole National Park, can attest, under oath, that I did not, in fact, scream like a little girl.

I was however, frozen in place. Next thing I know, Mark, the ranger, has jumped behind us! Leaving us facing the long black form, slithering into the woods. I guess he was more scared than we were. Thankfully, the business end was already in the bushes. Just when I was thinking, “That wasn’t so bad,” from over my shoulder, Mark says, “Black Mamba,” in an ominous ghost-story kind of way. My heart skipped four beats as I glanced back down at the most poisonous snake in Africa. Helpfully, Mark says, “Don’t tamper with it,” as if I was going to start poking it and swinging it around by the tail. It made its way into the woods, and I was about to quickly stride by, when the rangers discussed and decided that we should go around by a different trail. I was fine with this. Along the way I tried to break the ice and said, “So, if he bites me Mark, you will take care of me right?” Mark just laughed. I expected him to say something comforting but he didn’t. I stopped and looked at him, until he said, “Sir, Black Mamba is serious poison… you would die.” Oh excellent. These guys have a few things to learn about tourism.

So we made our way around by a different trail which abruptly ended. Mark turned to us and said in his ghost story voice, “And now, we enter the woods.” He pushed aside a few branches and revealed a small, dark trail. I turned to my sister, and flashed the Ford family “What in the hell?” look. After seeing a Black Mamba the last thing I want to start doing is bush-whacking our way through the jungle. But we made it through, and in to our tree-house. As Mark was leaving he said, “Oh, I hope you can find you’re way back.” Yeah, me too Mark, me too.

After unpacking, we forced ourselves back along the trail, hearts beating in our throats. I knew we had to conquer Black Mamba Avenue, or we would be screwed for the whole weekend. I yelled out, “Heellllloooo Snakes! It’s just me… coming through… Okay?” My sister flashed me the Ford Family, “Shut the $%^% up” look. We made it through back to the base camp, where J.B., who ended up being our chimp guide the next day, said with a hearty laugh, “Ahh, so I hear our friend Mamba has welcomed you.”

Hahahahahah, yeah, that’s right J.B.… shut it.

Where to start? Well, for new readers, Elmer was my Beer-Swilling-Eel Fishing-Ex-Uncle-In-Law. A well-known source of childhood trauma in my life. He stands out in my memory because of his amazing capacity to make exactly the least appropriate comments, and his ability to shatter childhood innocence with an admirable non-chalance. I would link to the other two stories about Elmer, but I’m just too damn lazy. If you haven’t read them, they’re down there somewhere.

Elmer and my ex-aunt Sharon lived in a trailer, on a farm of sorts, on a huge plot of land on top of Dickie Mountain (You might think I make this stuff up, but it’s true). I can say for sure that it was a farm, I just couldn’t tell you what was farmed, except maybe trout. Elmer had trout ponds out back. Of course he did, what else does an eel fishermen do in his spare time than raise fish in a pond for the purpose of sport fishing. I really never understood the “sport” in standing in a field, casting into a pond full of 300 trout, but then again, I don’t think I ever saw anyone pay to do it. I don’t think it was the most successful venture in the world. In any case, it gave me some amusement during family visits.

So one weekend, I was casting away, reeling in fish after fish, being pestered by Elmer’s huge, black dog (suitably, and predictably named “Bear”). My sister and brother were fairly young, and they had found a new friend. They were busy playing with Flossy. Flossy was a new addition to the “farm,” a big, beautiful cow. She was one of those cows that you see in the story books; the black and white, cute as a button cow that all the plush toys are modeled on. And the great thing was that Flossy was really friendly. I walked over and watched Flossy licking my sister’s hand. “Feel her tongue!” my sister implored me. “I’ll pass,” I said.

And let me tell you, this was one smart cow. Flossy would respond to simple commands that Elmer had taught her, “Stay” and “Come here,” that kind of thing. She would do this thing where she would try to rub her huge head up against your legs like a cat. This was particularly hilarious because it would usually knock my brother down into the mud if he wasn’t paying attention. My sister was in love. She was mad for that cow. Suddenly, she wanted to go to visit Sharon and Elmer, when before she had to be dragged. She wanted to learn how to milk her and everything. Flossy was a hit.

Half a year later, we ventured up Dickie Mountain for a Christmas visit. We had come for dinner, and Sharon’s “Slush,” which was some kind of vodka concoction that made all the adults wonky. Whenever that stuff came out, I knew we were staying the night. Anyway, dinner was served and smelled amazing; Sharon was a very good cook, as I remember. My Dad brought the serving plates over to the table, saying, “My God, this roast looks amazing….” (I’m sure you can see where this is going a mile away.) Elmer shouted out from his spot on the lazy-boy in the living room, “It damn well better be good roast, that’s Flossy Beef!”

My sister let out one of those strange noises that’s halfway between a scream and a gasp. Elmer strode proudly into the kitchen, threw open the deep-freeze and started hauling out cuts of meat to show us. “Yup, whole goddamn freezer’s fulla Flossy.” My brother couldn’t speak… finally he mumbled, “F-f-f-flossy?” Elmer was taken aback by the silence in the room. He was one of those guys that couldn’t stand silence, so he shouted out, “Ok listen up, Flossy was a damn good cow. Hell, Flossy was even a damn good friend. But goddamnit, she tastes even better!”

It was a somber dinner. My sister cried through grace and refused to eat. My brother looked very pale. My Dad had to explain the whole “life on a farm” idea to both of them a couple times. I counted myself lucky that I hadn’t gotten attached to that cow. But, I gotta tell you. It was damn good beef. Flossy was a hit.

In any case, you may remember from last time that Elmer was my crazy, long-lost uncle’s ex-wife’s new husband: A crude, rude, seasonal eel-fisherman, and the cause of much trauma in my young life (well, that’s an exaggeration, but what isn’t?).

One day, actually long before the “One-armed man spills thousands of eels all over the highway” incident, I was out with my father and Elmer on my hometown river, the Magaguadavic. The Magaguadavic is the bane of all elementary school spelling students in my home town, and is inexplicably pronounced “Macadavie.” It’s a Micmac or Maliseet word that means “River of Eels”, so apparently Elmer had done his research. It was a beautiful day, and we were cruising up-river in a small aluminum boat. We would motor up beside a floating marker-buoy, pull up the eel pods and then dump the squirming contents into a holding container. I was disgusted, yet fascinated.

One trap seemed heavier than the rest. And even before it reached the boat, Elmer was cursing. A huge snapping turtle had broken through the pod and eaten all the eels. Unfortunately for the turtle, the process had left him ensnared in the mesh. I leaned closer to get a good look and Elmer said, “Watch it! That thing’ll snap yer god-damn hand off soon as look at you.” Then he made a loud snapping noise and lurched the turtle toward me so that I jumped backward, slipped in my oversized rubberboots and sat down hard. Yes, yes, very amusing. I was still fascinated by the reptile though, whose iridescent shell was the size of your average briefcase. My Dad was a biologist, so he started explaining different aspects of the turtle, while I decided that I would name it Donatello, after my favourite Ninja Turtle (the intellectual, sarcastic ninja turtle, come to think of it…).

I looked into Donatello’s eye and craggy face, and was just starting to wonder why he wasn’t pulling back into his shell, when his whole head erupted in blood. Elmer took a second hack with a huge axe he kept under his seat for just such occasions (and fisheries officers I suppose) and the turtle’s head went bouncing along the bottom of the boat. I screamed and lurched backward, tripping over the bow seat and crashing down to the floor where an eel curled around my wrist and I screamed again. Elmer laughed and said something about how he couldn’t very well let a snapper get at his traps again. I stared, horrified, as the life-force gushed from Donatello’s neck…

Yup, good ole Elmer.

You see, I can’t eat sushi without thinking of Elmer.  Long before I even knew what Sushi was, I knew Elmer.  He was short and burly.  The hair he did have was cropped short, and he was one of those guys who was proud of his baldness.  His head always shone like my mother’s stainless steel mixing bowls, and probably contained just as much substance.  He had one of those bellies that kept a belt well preserved.  If you squinted you could just imagine him at the mall in a Santa-suit, but it would help if your image of Santa was of a guy who worked as a crude, alcoholic, fisherman during the North Pole’s off-season.

Even our connection with Elmer was strange.  He was my uncle’s ex-wife’s new husband, and even though there was no blood relation to either of them, we always visited, maybe for our cousin’s sake. Elmer was a seasonal eel fisherman.  He would set traps called Eel-pods out in
the rivers and then sell his catch to the Japanese.  His partner’s name was Rick.  Rick was the type of guy that everyone always called “Rickster”
or “Tricky Ricky.”  He had one arm, which made him immensely fascinating to us kids.  He had lost his right arm in some kind of accident years ago.  He always wore plaid flannel shirts with one sleeve pinned up and it was impossible, as a kid, not to stare.  If he caught us, he would say something like,” Are ya starin at my arm kid?”  We would nod in terrified silence, until he would invariably say something like, “No y’ain’t, I don’t got one.” Then he would laugh in a raspy, gurgling way that made me think of cigarettes and clogged sinks.

My Dad and I decided to go out with Elmer and Rickster one Saturday while we were visiting.  A chance to go for a drive and get out on a boat was always welcome.  My Dad glanced into Rickster’s truck and did a double take.  “You drive a standard?” he asked.  “Yup, shure do.”  Rickster was proud of the fact that he had never given up his manual transmission despite his missing appendage.  He explained how he worked the clutch with his left foot, the brake and accelerator with his right, steered with his knees and reached across his body with his left hand to shift.  My older cousin Bill climbed up into the cab beside Rickster.  I started to follow him.  “No way in Hell,” mumbled my Dad as he dragged me over to the car.

We spent the day retrieving eels from the stations where they were stored until they went to market.  It was more work than I wanted to do on a Saturday, but I think it was one of those parental lessons along the lines of “now you know how good you’ve got it” from my Dad.  On the way home though, things got interesting.  Rounding a corner on the Old River Road, Rickster misjudged the turn, no doubt some error in his beloved armless shifting.  His truck fishtailed onto the shoulder, he overcompensated again as it swung back onto the road, and two 1500 Gallon containers of eels flew off the back of the truck and spewed their contents all over the road.

We had been following at a safe distance, because with amazing foresight, my Dad had said, “I’m staying back, he may look ‘armless, but driving like that is dangerous.”  This was the type of joke we got all the time from my Dad, usually accompanied by elbow jabs to the ribs.  We got out and surveyed the damage.  The road was a black, swirling mass.  Eels curled and writhed on the pavement. Wildly, Elmer and Bill started scooping them back into the containers with shovels.  The road was now alive with their profits, because as Elmer said, “Those Japs will eat anything.”  We stood back, since there weren’t enough shovels anyway.  I was glad.  Truth be told, eels creeped me out.

Suddenly, from some distance I heard the roar of an engine.  It was a powerful engine, and if one thing was certain, it was an engine that wasn’t slowing down for the corner.  We yelled out to the eel shovellers and they dove for safety just as a black Trans-Am (It was the 80′s afterall) squealed around the corner and into the eels.  The driver slammed on the brakes, which was probably the worst thing he could have done.  But really, I can’t blame the guy.  What would you do if you were roaring along on a Saturday, came around a corner, and the road was suddenly covered in snakes?  The muscle car spun out of control on the slippery surface.  It swung through a circle and a half, spraying chunks of eel everywhere, until finally it stopped, facing the way it had come.  The door flung open wildly and a young guy jumped out screaming, “What the fuck? … What the FUCK!?”  He didn’t seem capable of saying anything else, until an eel started to wriggle up his leg, and he said “Jesus Fucking Christ, what the Fuck!?” 

I wasn’t accustomed to adults swearing in my presence yet.  It was a big day for me really, as far as childhood trauma goes.