Chapter 1 - The case of the twelve pints and other mysteries
I leave Edmonton on the "Dead Dups Tour of 2006" and almost meets and end cheering for Argentina in England. Thankfully I didn't get married off.
The madness of open roads and unbridled enthusiasm
London, Saturday, 09 June 2006
What madness this week has been! I had been waiting for the day of my departure to arrive for what seems like an eternity.
A mere six months ago, I felt the urge to go on an amazing trip. I had ended a relationship, a dear friend had lain dying in the hospital, and BioWare—where I worked—had stepped up to the next level. At the time, my life seemed scattered like petals on a fate-driven wind.
Six months later, I’m sitting in a pub in central London on the first day of a trek through Europe, Eastern Europe, and Central Asia. I will traverse the overland route of the Mongols and the lands of the steppe. Added to this is my overwhelming desire to stand atop Europe’s highest peak, Mt. Elbrus, and thereby claim another of the fabled “Seven Summits.”
My friend Craig Welsh calls it the “Dead Dups Tour 2006,” and heck, he might be correct. I wonder what fate awaits me in Russia. Will my mountain guides throw me over a cliff?
“He is lightweight with vodka. Off with him!”
I had inquired of the mountain guides the following question:
Question: “Have you had any problems with Chechen rebels?”
(Chechnya is a mere 300 km from Mt. Elbrus.)
Answer: “We have had no deaths in the last ten years…”
When I mentioned this trip to Sasha—a former Russian working at BioWare—he looked at me rather strangely.
“Why is it that you do this?!” he asked.
After hearing my answer, he turned back to his work.
“You are dead man.”
And yet the world seems wide open in front of me—a harsh road, perhaps a somewhat lonely road—but nevertheless, it will be filled with wonder and, hopefully, replete with tales to fill this book.
The case of the twelve pints
London, Sunday, 10 June 2006
Saturday was my day of “Friends and Family.” Tushar and Gayathri went off to Manchester for their friend’s wedding, and I was scot-free. Off I went to find the Tube station, and, as a sign of things to come, the nearest station was closed. Oops.
I decided, therefore, to put my Sri Lankan–Newfoundland–Canadian navigation skills to use in London. I smelled the air, gauged the direction of the sun, and walked off to the “east.”
After about an hour of going south, I abandoned my navigational efforts and found a working Tube station.
The morning and early afternoon were spent wandering around London. Good thing I chose the day when England was playing their first World Cup game—and which happened to be the Queen’s 80th birthday. At least I didn’t feel too lonely on the streets of London.
By 3 p.m., I was running off to Victoria train station to go to Bromley South to see my first cousin. Chandima was fair popping with her daughter-to-be. Her husband Gihantha—a lovely man—was slowly going crazy as a result of her somewhat temperamental wishes late in pregnancy. I do love her to bits. My uncle and aunt were also there for a mini family reunion.
By the count, I had had two pints and a large Pimms by the time I left Bromley South for central London to meet my close friend from Newfoundland, Seamus Heffernan. This time, my Sri Lankan–Newfoundland–Canadian navigational skills left me only thirty minutes late. My Tube dyslexia turned “Piccadilly” into “Jubilee.”
So, if you’ve kept count, you must be wondering where the rest of the pints came from. Seamus turned out to be the local quiz master at his pub. Need I say more? There’s an odd feeling aroused by being in an English pub with six or seven regulars—including the manager—watching Argentina beat the Ivory Coast in the World Cup. The English do not like Argentina. I can’t possibly imagine why…
At 3 a.m., I was cordially dropped into a taxi at Holloway Road for a rather expensive and long ride with a gent from Bangladesh named Ramen. A drunk Dups makes friends everywhere. At least I made it home, even if I talked the poor driver’s head off about Sri Lanka, South Asia, and their troubles.
I don’t remember walking up to Tushar’s; I don’t remember falling asleep; I don’t remember dozing off on my head—and thereby inspiring a back pain that lasted for two solid days.
So, thence we come to Sunday morning: hungover, unable to turn my head very far, and severely dehydrated by the time Tush and Guy returned from Manchester. Guy gave me a disapproving look, which means her son Arya will be kept away from my evil influence—and rightfully so.
Arranging Family and Friends
London, Sunday, 11 June / Monday, 12 June 2006
I have always been open about various family attempts to marry me off. Sunday turned into an extended conversation on the subject.
Let me give the reader some background.
In December 2003, Tushar and Gayathri married in Sri Lanka. I was a groomsman and the master of ceremonies. My parents were also there as guests. Apparently—and this could have been the result of the copious amounts I drank to keep myself sane and functioning during the busy wedding—I was hard to forget. As my parents were leaving the wedding, my dad turned to Tush and said, “Now you need to find Duleepa a good wife.”
Sigh. You go, Dad!
Fast forward to Guy’s parents’ kitchen in South London.
“I know this lovely Tamil girl. Should I call her?” teases Guy’s sister.
My pounding, dehydrated, and no-doubt much-garbled brain took a moment to assimilate the words. To spare you the worry, she was not called—probably a good thing considering my state.
Sunday was a family affair featuring plenty of Sri Lankan food and wonderment at the inner workings of a 17‑month‑old’s mind—and that child’s effect on those past the age of 60. Have you noticed the affinity aged men have for young children? Or, for that matter, the affinity young children have for grandfatherly men? It’s quite cute, though how this plays into evolution is something I have yet to fully grasp.
Monday had me gallivanting around London in severe heat.
I could spend hours describing the skin-crawling heat and humidity in the middle of London’s “water drought”—apparently, you can have other types of drought in London, maybe droughts of geese, ducks, and perhaps even, god forbid, beer—but really, who wants that?
Instead, my evening was spent around the garden table at Tushar’s with my former Hong Kong schoolmate, Karen Manville. A bout of Thai food and beer left everyone in good spirits. Karen had changed very little in the fourteen or so intervening years and looked as good, if not better!
Now, a few things of note this evening: my bank card ceased working. I had tried it with a couple of banks, and lo and behold, it had died. Thankfully, my Mastercard was not dead yet! Another development was getting to Luton Airport for my EasyJet flight to Berlin. Tushar could not take me, which meant a 3 a.m. wake-up for a 3:30 a.m. taxi, which led to a 4 a.m. bus ride in order to be at the airport at 5 a.m. for a 6:30 a.m. flight.
Having finished supper, I flew through the packing—including the copious amounts of emergency syringes that Tushar had provided—and off I went to bed.
The first part of my trip was coming to a fast and sad end.