Join us every Thursday for another short story from a Kossack with a tale to tell, fact or fiction. One which will both inform and entertain.
And join us on Mondays at 5pm Pacific for poetry from the left where we scream our dissatisfaction with the status quo in verse or worse.
Tonight's story is a fictionalized version of a generally true set of events
Enjoy
Peace
CJ
The Asia Hand
Tuan Tinggi (The Tall Lord as his staff called him) split his time for most of the sixties between his offices in Djakarta and Kuala Lumpur. Tuan means “Lord” in Bahasa Indonesia and it was normal for Indonesians and Malaysians to give Westerners who came to live in their countries a nickname which often referred to a physical attribute.
Alistair Fenton, or Al as the other expats called him when he bellied up to the bar at the Foreign Correspondents Club every night at precisely 18 hundred hours in whichever city he was in at the time, was born in England. A Cambridge graduate with a perfect Oxbridge accent, given to pin stripes, oxford button-downs with club ties and a shock of dark curly hair, Alistair had helped many European companies establish branches throughout South East Asia. Needless to say, Al stood out like a sore thumb on the streets of Djakarta, KL and Singapore.
Even more conspicuous was Al's assistant, while Al was 6'2”, Robbie towered over him at 6'6” and gaunt of frame, the Indonesians called Robbie Tuan Elang (Lord Hawk) from his avian visage and a bird-like gait with small, hopping steps, humorous to watch on such a tall gangly frame.
Al and Robbie had also made a small fortune by working for a large auction house in London where old and valuable Asian objets d'art would mysteriously become available at auction. Objects which were last seen in a temple/home/village in Indonesia or Thailand or some other location in southern Asia. With the money Al had accumulated he bought an old manor house in Barton-St-David in Somerset where he planned to retire and open the house as a B&B in the middle of the 1970's.
So he made arrangements to sell his consulting practice to us. I was one of his main contacts, first from Sydney, and later from Hong Kong when I, too, had become, Tuan Rambutan (Lord Curly Lychee). My first meeting with Al was like meeting a character from Kipling. I simply did not believe that these “empire builders” were still with us. Total disdain for everything “not British” exuded from every pore, the first “Asia Hand” I had ever met in the flesh. I had read about these people in Maugham, Conrad, Burgess. Sudden realization of what was waiting for me in Hong Kong.
Later, when I was living in Hong Kong, I had to go to England to meet with Al to finalize the Malaysian deal. Shirley and I train from London to Baltonsborough where George, the B&B's “man” meets us and one other guest, a middle aged, haughty, very well-dressed, extremely proper, lady. George is driving a horse and cart! That's right! A draft horse and a cart with two back-to-back benches, one facing front, one facing the rear. The lady takes the front, Shirley and I take the rear. George stows the luggage underneath the benches and we're off.
Now, some of you will think this is a joke, I have heard this story a dozen times or more, but here we go! About ten minutes pass when the prim and proper lady says: “My man, that cow over there, in that field, on the right side. That cow doesn't have any horns. Can you tell me why?”
George, very slowly and deliberately, “Well, Mum, you see, there's zum cows iz born iz duznt hav 'orns, and there's zum iz so destructive we hav to cut 'em off, and there's zum who rubs em off on trees. But the reason that there cow don't av no 'orns iz coz that there cow iz a 'orse.”
So we spent two days finalizing the deal, enjoyed a beautiful weekend in the English west country and head on back to Hong Kong with everything set to go when I send the papers to my other partners back in Oz.
Fast forward about 4 months and I need to call Al once again with a minor change that needs his verbal agreement before we sign the paperwork. Now, back in the 70's, Barton-St-David has a manual telephone exchange and phoning the Manor House involves a call to Bristol where a live operator connects you to Baltonsborough and a second operator calls the house from there.
I make the call. Bristol exchange comes on the line, “Hello love, calling from Hong Kong are you? Don't get many calls from there. You want to speak to the Manor House in Barton-St-David? I'll have to ring Baltonsborough and she will put you through.” “OK by me” I say “Hello love, Baltonsborough exchange here, calling from Hong Kong, eh? Must be for the Manor House, Mr Fenton's been getting calls from Australia and Singapore and all kinds of places.” This is getting pretty annoying “That's right, I want to speak to Alistair Fenton at the Manor House” says I. The phone rings once, twice, on about the eighth ring, someone picks up and a familiar voice says “Sorry, the marsterss not 'ome”
It's George! I say, “George, It's Bruce, you know, Bruce Maxwell.You can call him Al, it's OK” And George replies “Oh no sirr, one of the guests moight overhear, sirr”
While I am muttering under my breath (I think) “This is the weirdest phone call I have ever made” the Bristol operator chimes in “It ain't over yet, love”, and the Baltonsborough operator echoes “Damn right!” What else could I do but laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
So I leave a message for Al to call me when he gets back, which he does and our business is finally concluded.
I often think of Alistair Fenton as Tuan Tinggi, one of the last representatives of the once far flung British empire in its final death throes. A comical master at home and abroad.
© CJ Campbell August 2005, October 2009, April 2012