The Turk

A culinary journey with Dutch Boy sharing two of his classic recipes.

Last week I was at a wine tasting. Now, as is usually the case with wine tastings, it’s all about the wine. Hence the name. Great wine this time from Turkey Flat, a not so big vineyard and winemaker in Barossa Valley with truly great wines. Good thing that they did not have a lot of stock, or else I would have hopelessly overspent again.

I do want to emphasize in this episode of Dutch Boy the importance of good pairing. It’s okay if you think the wine is more important than the food. I also enjoy to first of all pick my wine in a restaurant, and only then worry about the menu. But being a foody and enthusiastic amateur cook, I will share some of the things that I did with my Turkey Flat purchases.

The usual disclaimers: no animals were hurt in the process, except those that were eaten. Oh, and of course end results may vary, that all depends on your creativity, taste, and skills, as well as on the appreciation of your audience.

Moules Marinières

Ingredients for 2 persons

- Mussels; you can use the halve shell Australian or New Zealand green mussels, excellent taste, use about 1 kg for 2 persons. In case of Dutch mussels, nice small juicy tender ones from Zeeland, use about 1.5 kg for 2.

- White wine; don’t use crap, please. It will ruin your evening. Use the best wine you can reasonably afford. A good chardonnay, or if you happen to find a few bottles, use Turkey Flat’s Butcher’s Block White 2008, a blend of Marsanne (57%), Viognier (32%) and Roussanne (11%). For the 2 of you, make sure you have 2 bottles. One for cooking, one for dinner.

- Tomatoes, a few nice ripe plum tomatoes

- Tomato puree

- 1 chili padi

- 1 big yellow onion

- 2 cloves of garlic

- 1 spring onion

- A handful of parsley

- A nice crusty rustic country bread

Preparation doesn’t take long, so have your date in gear by the time you really start cooking. Set her on the customer side of your kitchen bar and give her some simple task like tasting the wine and maybe folding some napkins. Don’t let her cross that thin line that involves handling utensils or ingredients. It will ruin your date. Now then, all set? Let’s get started.

First of all, pre-heat the oven to 100 degrees Celcius. The cut half of the bread into big chunks. Put the bread pieces in an oven tray, and chuck it in the oven. The purpose of this is to make your nice fresh country bread go stale a bit. That way it will absorb better all the juices.

Taste the wine. And do not forget to keep it chilled! When using the Turkey Flat, it doesn’t need to be that cold actually, about 10 degrees is great.

Next, start chopping. Bring out the big guns and show off your knife skills. Note that there’s little more upsetting for a hot date then you cutting a finger, so please practice a bit, ok? Don’t go sissy on the onion, garlic and chili, if you show tears the evening is over. But do make sure to wash your hands, preferably with some lemon juice, to get rid of the smell and especially the chili juices. If you don’t believe that is critical, then just for the fun of it, rub your eyes or any other sensitive body part (yeah, the little fella down there for example).

Taste the wine, to make sure the temp is still okay. This also might be a good moment to top up the lady and change your play list from ghetto rap to something smooher.

Stage 3, put up a big pan something like in the picture below. Make sure that it actually does fit all the mussels comfortably. But don’t put in the mussels yet. Start with some olive oil, and on low fire, soften the onions, garlic and chili. Add some salt from the mill, and likewise pepper. Let it soften for a few minutes, while tasting the wine.

Almost there, buddy. Once the onions are nice and soft (not brown!), top up your wineglass to the rim, taste it carefully, and dunk the rest of the glass in the pan. This will smell absolutely fabulous, and the lady will be impressed. Pour yourself another glass of wine, and check the progress on hers. Make sure her glass is not too full, she hates that. Girls are just different in that, don’t ask why. Now put in the tomatoes, and a teaspoon or two of your tomato paste. Be careful with the tomato paste, better too little than too much! The purpose is not to make a bolognaise sauce, but just to help the fresh tomatoes a bit, and create a little bit more structure in your jus. The consistency should be very, very soupy. Taste it! This is the last opportunity to adjust your seasoning, better make sure it’s right. Under-seasoned food just tastes awful, do not make that mistake. Also taste the wine.

Last part, add the mussels! The mussels will cook very quickly, and overcooking mussels is really not nice, because they will get very chewy. Stir the whole thing while it’s cooking, so that the soup will go over all the mussels and the tomatoes and onions stick to each mussel. At the last moment, when the mussels are almost done, add the parsley and stir it in. Taste the wine for a last time, because we’re done!

Get the bread out of the oven, and just before serving the mussels, sprinkle the spring onions on top. Just put the pan on the table, it’s a rustic dish and after all, your pans are nice things to look at, right? Use deep plates (not bowls, you’re not a farmer) to serve.

Now ease the lady in her seat, open your second bottle (I would advice a slightly more chilled one), dim the lights, and let her admire you.

Sausage pasta

Ingredients for 2 persons

- Two bottles of The Turk 2006

- 6 fresh lamb sausages

- Fresh thyme

- About 10 black Kalamata olives

- A few plum tomatoes, 3 or so should be enough

- 1 big onion

- 2 cloves of garlic

- 5 chili padi

- Tomato paste

- Pasta of your choice

Okay, this is a super fast super simple super tasty dinner, typically perfect for a Monday evening, when you come home late from an intense day at the office. You don’t want to go out for dinner, you just want to stay in. Your feelings require comfort food. And wine. Now, the great thing about the wine selection for this recipe is that it’s completely non-pretentious. So don’t drink it with your foie gras d’ois filled filet mignon. It would be slightly underwhelming. But drink it with this Dutch Boy classic recipe, and you will be so happy. And at just under 60 dollars per bottle, even two won’t break the bank.

Step 1: open the first bottle, and pour yourself a generous glass. Yeah, you can taste it already, this is going to be one great evening. Who says Monday sucks?

Let’s get this show on the road. Chop your onion the lazy way, so no neat cubes, just chop it in half then cut it length wise, not half-rings. Crush the garlic with the big knife. The chili padi should be a stinging surprise each time you bite in one, so just get rid of the green part, then half them lengthwise. If you’re lazy (and chances are that you will be), then don’t bother pitting the olives. To prevent lawsuits and dental claims from your guests, just warn them there’s a stone in the olives. Cut the tomatoes in 8th’s. That’s that for the prepping. By now your glass should be empty. If not, drain it, then refill.

Put pot with salted water on the fire to boil your pasta. At the same time, heat a bit of olive oil in a large sauté pan to slowly fry the sausages. Once the sausages are nice and brown, lower the heat and add the onions, garlic, and chilies, all at the same time. Use moderate flames, you don’t want to brown these extra ingredients too much, especially not the garlic. Soft is the result your looking for. After a few minutes, refill your glass, take a slurp or two, and add the rest to the sausages. Smell the Turk. Let the alcohol disappear, and after about two minutes, add a few teaspoons of tomato paste. Don’t make the sauce too concentrated, that’s not nice. Add the thyme and the olives, and taste before seasoning with salt and pepper. Be careful, your sausage and olives may have already salted the dish quite a bit, so taste it, and taste it again. Then taste the wine again, and note the perfect companionship growing between the 3 of you.

The water should be boiling in the other pot now, so put in your pasta and cook it. During the cooking time of the pasta the flavours in the sauce can develop nicely. About 4 minutes before the pasta is done, add the tomato chunks to the sauce. Don’t do this too early, or else they will boil to mush. Just a few minutes will get rid of the acidity while adding their natural flavours to the sauce. Taste the sauce, drink some Turk. Can you still remember what happened in the office? It wasn’t that bad a day after all, was it?

Ok, we’re done! Drain the pasta, remove the thyme from the sauce, and put it all in a deep plate (again, bowls are for farmers, not you and your friend). Serve with a side salad if you must, crusty bread if you have it, and plenty more Turk in generous glasses.

Dinner done? Finish the rest of the Turk with a strong espresso, and hope you don’t have an early meeting. Cheers.

Looking for Lily

A non-romantic love story with a sad ending, in which Dutch Boy finds himself in a hairy situation, then finds the true one, only to lose her again.

When I was still a little Dutch Boy, going for a haircut used to be an uneventful event. That sounds strange, but the anticipation of going to a hair saloon was so high, that the event itself was always slightly disappointing. As a child it is somewhat excitingly traumatizing that someone cuts off parts of you with a pair of scissors, not terminally wounding or at least hurting you in the process. It's absolutely fascinating. However, hair dressers in the Netherlands are not paid per happy customer, but by the minute. No free coffee, no free hair wash, no massage. Cut, mirror, and bugger off. 25 Euro, thank you very much.

My hair dresser in those days was Michel (pronounce in the French way). Back then I thought he was quite cool, with his leather tool belt full of razor sharp tools (such as razor blades). Thinking back of him now, I have to change my opinion slightly. Michel had a droopy moustache, a velvet sweater, and was constantly fidgeting with his bleached curly perm hairdo. Not with the hair of his customers, but his own hair. He drove a third-hand Camaro, with a three-toned horn, and an air-brushed topless chick on the hood. Michel looked like a German porn star from the seventies.

Little boys become boys, and I moved from my small provincial home town to the big city of Rotterdam for some academic tuning. Let me not dwell on that success too long, but keep the focus on the relevant part. I frequented a total of 3 saloons in Rotterdam. That started with Saloon Pieter. They had student rates. For 10 guilders you could get a fairly decent haircut. What was more important, Pieter's top hair dresser (apart from Pieter himself, yet another German porn star type) was a blond chick that the male part of the university cued up for around the block. She was hot, and she knew it. She was also completely untouchable, eventually driving me away to better opportunities.

Which I found plenty of at the Academy. Yeah, I know, it sounds sophisticated. But sticking to the topic of this story, it's the academy for hair dressers. Great deal, for 5 guilders you place yourself at the risk of a 1^st year student trying to figure out how to avoid cutting off your ear. But it was so worth it: 18-19 year old girls without the slightest hindrance of a brain, interested only in my hair. Dating was never easier, albeit with little intelligent talking. Unfortunately the haircuts were so bad that every once in a while I had to go for restoration at a 'real' saloon. And a 'real' saloon for me, that was at the three old men.

Officially (and aptly) named 'Hair saloon Kralingen', this place was popularly known as 'The Three Old Men'. You have guessed it, the saloon was staffed by 3 old men, one of which was the owner, who had inherited the place from his father, and probably he had it from his fathers father, and so on. The place seemed to have existed since the beginning of days, without having changed at all. It was a bless to be part of that scene. Mind you, this was a men's barber shop. No women were helping or being helped at all. That nicely kept the number of discussion topics to a bare minimum: women, and football.

In this part of Rotterdam they did explicitly not discuss the glorious club from the south side of the river, Feyenoord, or at the most in terms of curses. Also not the second club from the west side in Spangen, the age-old club of Sparta. None of that. For the three old men the one and only club worthwhile talking about, with all its miserable defeats, grave disappointments, near-bankruptcies, and second league grayness for generations, was Excelsior. It bored the hell out of me.

Sometimes they did talk about other things. One of the old ones asked me every time what I did for a living. My answer "Something in computer software" seemed to be of such an unreachable abstract level, that it usually shut him up instantly about that topic. The good thing about this place was that they opened at 7am on weekdays, giving me ample time to get a haircut before joining the slow sliding gray fuming metal snake of traffic jam to the office in Delft, a mere 15 kilometers yet over an hour away.

Oh, memories of the good old days. Getting a haircut was such a trivial part of life yet it gave so much pleasure in all its simplicity. All that changed so abruptly when I moved to the East. Here in Malaysia, getting a hair cut is an important event, yet I dread it every time.

It starts with the smell. The combination of air-conditioned super dry air mixed with chemical hair products does bad things to my stomach. The moment I step into a saloon here, I want to get out already, the nausea setting in immediately. Then comes the front desk. A front desk, the idea of that in a saloon is still hilarious to me.

"Yes, sir, how can I help you?" Can you think of a more rhetorical question than that? We're in a hair saloon for crying out loud. "I would like to have the braised lamb shank Moroccan style and a glass of your house pouring pinot noir with that, please." Instantly, the plastic smile disappears from Barbie's face. This was not handled in her training program, so she quickly switches to defense mode, meaning she will pass me on to someone else. In the blink of an eye, the front desk manager appears. "Yes, sir?"

I decide not to push it any further, because I'm getting sick from the chemical smell already. Time is of essence here, I must get my haircut before throwing up all over Barbie and friends. "A hair cut, please," is my answer, giving her a hot wink. She cordially ignores it, but Barbie doesn't, and she's cutting back in immediately. Great, in this very brief moment I have created a catfight between manager and employee. My stomach is churning into a whirlpool of boiling acid. The manager disappears, fuming, but without a sound.

"Did you make a booking?" asks Barbie. I actually did try that one time. The result was the same as without a booking. They let me simmer in one of those super uncomfortable pvc-upholstered chairs while the girl is helping 3 others first, leaving me flipping through Chinese car magazines dating from before 2000. It makes zero difference. "No", I tell her honestly. She smiles at me in an empathizing way, as if she's foreseeing already a looooong waiting time. Strange, because there's hardly anyone inside.

"Your first time here?" I wonder why she's asking that question. Is there a secret initiation process that I should be aware of in this institute? Just gimme a frigging haircut, lady! I play it safe, by lying "No." She sees right through me, I can tell it from the false smile on her face. I'm on her territory here, and she can smell victory. She corners me with a trick question "Then who's your stylist?" Check mate. "I, I.. but" nothing but stuttering. I am about to throw up on her, the chemical smell by now unbearable. The world starts to spin slowly around me. I can do 2 things now: faint (I don't have to do anything for that, I'm almost there already), or flee (the better option).

Then suddenly a calm voice from behind says "I am". As quick as it came up, the nausea is gone. Barbie's face turns sour. "This way, please", the voice says. I follow behind her. She's a small girl. Her hair is surprisingly normal for a hair stylist. Half long, dark brown. It looks well taken care of, without haven the over-treated look that most people working in a hair saloon carry. I take that as a good sign. She sits me down in a chair with a smile.

A quick sharp order in Chinese, and one of the other (clearly lower in the mysteriously complex hierarchy that exists in hair saloons) girls runs off, and comes back with a cup of tea and a stack of magazines. Another order, this one sounding much more unfriendly. The other girls looks like it physically hurts, and she quickly exchanges the magazines (indeed, the 5 year old GQ issue and more of that stuff) for a brand new issue of Motor Trader. Now we're talking!

"I'm Lily", the girl announces. "I'm Dutch Boy", I reply. "You need a haircut", she observes. It sounds like an accusation. Not to me, but to the person that did my hair the previous time. "Yes", I agree. "And you need a different shampoo", she says. I look her in the face, about to start protesting against the sickly urge of hair stylists to go into a direct selling mode when their customers are at their most vulnerable, tucked in under a plastic sheet, in an uncomfortable position in an uncomfortable chair, under the threat of razor sharp tools. But before I can start my tirade, she says "Trust me". And strangely enough, I do. With those two words the ground rules for our relationship are laid down. She never, ever sells me anything that I do not need, regardless of the commission. And I will never, ever question her when she tells me to buy a product, regardless of how redundant it seems to me. When I'm in her chair, she's in charge. I trust her.

"I'll be right back," she announces, and leaves me alone to sip my tea and flip through the magazine with car classifieds. It's one of my favorite magazines. Thousands of cars in all different classes and price ranges, from a 15 year old Kancil for a thousand ringgit to an almost spanking new DB9 of a cool 1.3 million, it's all in there. And as always, after looking at all that shining second hand steel, it suddenly seems very reasonable to cough up 400,000 ringgit for a 5 year old Porsche. "Don't buy that one." Lily had sneaked up behind me and is looking at me in the mirror. "I know that car; it's not in great condition. The owner had it maintained at a very shoddy workshop, and he's now selling it because the maintenance is growing over his head." I look at her in disbelief. Could this really be? A hair stylist that actually knows her cars?

She tells me that she had always wanted to work in car trading, but her mother doesn't allow her to. But she really knows what she's talking about. Every model from every year she has an opinion on, and she knows where to buy a good version of it. She has a lot of contacts at the higher-end sports cars dealerships. Time is flying by as we talk and talk, and before I know it, she's done already. "How to say thank you in your language?" she asks me. I tell her. She practices it for a few times, until it sounds like "dunking". It's good enough for me. Then she teaches me the only 2 words I know in Mandarin: "Xie Xie."

Back at the front desk she puts a small bottle of shampoo in front of me, to be added to my tab. The hair cut is not expensive, but the total bill makes me gasp for air, and I need to pull out the plastic to cover for it. Lily smiles at me, and I know what that means. Don't argue. Trust me.

Lily has cut my hair over the past 8 years now, and I have enjoyed every minute of it. What's more, she has healed my near-phobic view on hair saloons, barbers, stylists, and the rest of the industry. Oh, let's not forget, she gives a great haircut as well; not completely irrelevant when going to a saloon. She always makes time in her schedule when I call for an appointment (which I now do), and she is actually available when I show up on time. She makes me use hair products that I do not understand, but that simply work for me. And she is one of the most interesting conversation partners that I have ever met in my entire life.

Last week I noticed my hair was getting a bit long again. I don't like that, because it's quite hot when running or cycling. So as usual, I speed-dialed the saloon. Barbie answered the phone as usual. "Oh, hi Dutch Boy! How are you today?" She's quite friendly to me nowadays, probably because I'm also more bearable now as a customer. "Can you book me for a haircut by Lily, please?" Her answer makes my world crumble apart like a sand castle in the monsoon. "Lily is no longer working here." Even Barbie sounds sad. I almost hit a big cement truck in front of me. I pull off the road to process this. The news is blowing me away. I don't know what to say. "Hello, hello?" it comes from the phone. "Where did she go?" I ask, hoping in vain that she just moved to a different branch or to a competitor. "I don't know. Shall I book you with Ivanka instead?" asks Barbie. Ivanka. It sounds awful. I can smell the chemicals again. I'm getting sick. I disconnect the line without a word.

It took a few days to accept the news, and I went through all stages of digestion, from denial to anger to sadness, and bouncing back and forth between them. Eventually I understand and accept it now. Some day I will have to give up my haircut-strike that I am on currently, and smile at an Ivanka. It's ok, I will get used to it. Getting a haircut will never be the same anymore, but such is life.

I do have some unfinished business, though. I need to find Lily. I need to see for myself if she has found what she was always looking for. And there's only one way to do that. To find Lily, I just have to buy the latest issue of Motor Trader. Then visit each and every sports car dealer to find the best possible Porsche in town. When I find it, Lily will be there, as the person selling it to me. We will not bargain about the price. She will just point out the car to me, and I will pay the price, no questions asked. I trust her.

- end -

The Fork

It's going to rain. I can tell, because my knee is itching like crazy. It's a big mess of fresh scars, and extremely sensitive to weather changes. Always a few minutes before Astro shows distortion, I can feel a thunderstorm approaching. Oh well, I guess cut up knees are part of life for an XC rider. No padding, for more freedom of movement. Great. Until you crash…

That day a few weeks back started like any other day. An early wake up call by the most annoying dj the valley has so far had the pleasure of listening to. They want the audience to call and share the most embarrassing moment they had in public because of their parents. I'm surprised so many people are calling. The dj plays yet another Michael Jackson song. Time to get up.

At the first glimpse of light I'm on my bike. It's chilly. The air is still without too much haze and exhaust fumes. "Pagiiii", the Indian butcher shouts when I curve around his chopping block. Even the meat smells less pungent today.

If you're the owner of the burgundy Toyota Unser, my apologies for clipping your side mirror. In my defense, you shouldn't park there. Especially so early in the morning there's plenty of parking in the designated spots.

The nasi lemak girl is setting up her stuff. One stool for her to sit on, one stool for the crate of nasi lemak. Darn, I forgot to bring the one ringgit note I still owe her from the other day. "Pagiiii", I shout at her, hoping that she has forgotten. Her look says otherwise. "Tomorrow, I promise", I promise her. She smiles.

I climb the hill into Bukit Kiara park. Smoothly, I might add. I pass a lady on her morning walk. One of her shoes is squeaking like a lobster in boiling water. Really loud. That must irritate the hell out of her. My bicycle is exceptionally quiet today. Sometimes she (the bike, I don't know about the lady) just sounds more grinding. Not today. Smooth all the way.

Another rider is waiting at the gazebo for the light to be strong enough to go into the jungle. We know each other. "W'sup", he says. I don't know his name. He doesn't know my name. We don't care. Sometimes we ride together. When we meet, we ride. Life is not that complicated. He once told me he works at a photo shop. I was surprised at the crappiness of his camera. We never talked about work after that. It's not necessary. We have zero in common, except a shared passion for riding. At which we both suck. That creates a strange bond.

"How's the fork holding up", he asks, giving polite follow-up to one of my earlier complaints when I had a bad day and needed to blame my bicycle. I shrug. Then I notice he upgraded his. "Nice one. Vanilla." It must have cost him a frigging bomb. I like that. The guy sets his priorities right. "I'm jealous", I say. And I mean it, in a nice way. He nods.

He asks "2K?" It's my favorite trail. I adjust the damping of my fork. There's actually nothing wrong with it. I'm used to it. "Sure", I say, and lead the way into the dark jungle. Leading has its pro's and con's. The good thing is that you determine the pace. The bad thing is, that being the first in the jungle means you're the one sweeping up all the fresh cobwebs, including its arachnid inhabitants. It sticks to your face, and stings in your eyes.

The first part has a lot of rooty staircases. It's nice, because I know this trail inside out. We bomb down the steps. After a while it goes steeply up for a few meters. A big cobweb sticks to my helmet, face, nose, ears, mouth, and eyes. I try to spit it away. It partially blinds me. That's how I misjudge the next drop. With watery eyes in the dark woods, I can only see a blur. But I feel my front wheel drop much sooner and much deeper than I expected.

I crash hard. My left side hits the steep hill side. My head hits a tree and I ricochet off it. The helmet does its job. My knee hits the next tree. No protection there. It hurts so bad. I try to get up. "Click", says my knee cap. "U ok?" my friend asks me. "I'm good", I say and inspect my bike. Not a scratch on it of course. "U shud upgrade ur fork", he says. "Yeah, it's rubbish", is my answer. I splash some water on my knee to get rid of the mud. It's bleeding. "Blood is good", says the dude, "it disinfects." "Thanks, doctor Oz", I say, "let's go." I lead again.

We ride hard and concentrated the rest of the trail. When we come out it's completely light. "U look like shit", my fellow rider says. Is that his professional opinion as a photographer? Other people also look worried when they see me. My jersey is shredded. And my knee hurts like crazy. Blood is dripping down my leg. I decide to call it a day and go for breakfast. "See ya", is the farewell as I peddle the short climb up the hill to exit the park.

Back home I lick my wounds and have my breakfast in the kitchen. I surf eBay and find dozens of knee and elbow protectors. They're cheap. Free shipping. But I'm not a downhill rider. I decide to reward myself with a new shirt. Much nicer.

- end -

Jungle Boy

Really, I didn't know those places still exist, where you are completely off the grid. No phone. No internet. No nothing. Just jungle. Dark, cold, and full of sounds I don't recognize. I know my coordinates, but a GPS is meaningless if there's no way out. But let's start at the beginning...

As usual, it was a nice Sunday morning. But today no riding. Instead I’m driving. Up north somewhere. I got the coordinates punched in the GPS. I need it, because I have no idea where I am, or where I’m going to. They told me it’s the perfect retreat to de-stress. I need that. They also told me “it’s simple and basic”. Now, in general I don’t mind that. Yes, I’m a city boy, but I’m not big on 5-star resorts with ice cold rooms where they give you fresh shower caps with the hotel logo printed on them every morning, as if to remember you that you smell bad. Basic is fine. The problem usually starts when they advertise it as such. Because it doesn’t mean simple. And it never means basic. It usually is an euphemism for the words “crap”, “grotty”, and other negatives. But the de-stress thingy sounded good enough. Just to be sure, I’ve taken the big eski in the boot, filled to the rim with the good stuff. It will help me survive the “simple and basic” part.

Excellent. The GPS now tells me I’m no longer on a road. Which is sort of true. You can’t classify this as a road. Funny enough, the blinking black and white finish flag on the GPS screen says that I still have quite a long way to go. Oh, well, let’s not stress too much about that, we’ll see where it ends.

Just to be sure, I also brought the map that they provided on the web. Map is a big word, it’s sort of a drawing of landmarks along the way, like “really big tree trunk, turn right”. Hello, may I remind you we’re in the jungle here? There’s really big tree trunks everywhere. Oh, no, this one is really big, that must be it. Hm, not too bad after all, that map.

Next land mark. “Do NOT cross this bridge. 90% of all people who lost their way is coz they crossed the bridge”. Sounds like a horror movie. A quick calculation. It means that at least 10 people have lost their way in an attempt to find the place, or else you can’t come to a “bridge” percentage of 90. Now I really wonder what happened to poor bugger number 10. How did he die? And what is on the other side of the bridge that causes such an extremely high mortality rate? Ah, there’s the bridge. Ouch! Not in a million years would I try to drive over it! It’s a wooden bridge with big gaping holes in the completely rotten planks. I wouldn’t even try walking over it.

A few landmarks later “pass the really really really small school” (which made me stop and look around for dwarfs, but no luck), and the “big pond” (compared to the really really really small school maybe, but it was not much), and the the road stops at a surprisingly modern looking sliding gate. This must be it!

The gate is not locked, so I slide it open, and drive in. A Nepalese boy appears. Nepalese? Yeah, I think so, because he doesn’t look Malay, Indonesian, Bangla, Indian, Chinese, white or anything else recognizable, and we don’t speak a single word in a language common to both of us. So much for the chit-chat. Still he doesn’t appear hostile, or even surprised, so I guess he must have been expecting me. Good. I park the car and take my backpack. And the Nepalese takes the 30kg eski like a true sherpa. Hence the association with Nepal, I guess.

After quite a hike through the jungle, following what looks like an unused overgrown single track, we come to a very small flowing stream. That we follow upstream for a few minutes, and there suddenly he is. JUNGLE BOY.

With a disapproving expression, yet without personal emotions, Jungle Boy just stands there, watching us enter his domain. Without a word, the trapdoor is opened, and the sherpa and I climb up the wooden deck of the otherwise glass and steel shed. He gives me a very eerie feeling. Not necessarily unwelcome, but just spooky. Never before have I encountered a wooden statue with so much personality. It sends a cold shiver down my spine…

Simple and basic. Yes, that would be a proper description after all. Not crap. Just simple, and basic. A bed. A fan. A mosquito net. A chair. A fire pit. An outdoor shower and toilet. I dig this. It has de-stress written all over it. I quickly check my hand phone. No signal. So much for e-mail, work calls, reading the news. I’m on my own. It feels… I don’t know, it feels almost scary. No, adventurous, that’s a better word. I look at Jungle Boy. He looks back. “Pff. City boy” he says.

I look around, but the sherpa is gone. Without a sound, without a word (which I would not have understood anyway). Oh well, never mind. Let’s de-stress. I look at the absence of the signal on my hand phone for a while. Quite therapeutic. My blood pressure is dropping already. Then I look at the map again. I’m at the cross. I can see a curly line passing through the cross, going up. No idea if “up” is north. Just “up”. Who cares when you’re in the middle of nowhere, with no intention to go anywhere. Hey, hold on. A bit further “up”, there’s another symbol on the map, in the way of the curly line. It must be a waterfall. Hm. Interesting. “Don’t do it”, Jungle Boy says, “It’s not worth it”. I look at him. His expression has changed now, into a sort of mocking challenging smile. “Screw you, Jungle Boy. I’m going in.”

Quickly I grab two cold ones from the eski and into my backpack, strap on the off road GPS (ok, ok, I admit it, I’m a real city boy, I did bring 2 GPS units), mark my location, flip Jungle Boy the bird, and off I go.

I follow the stream “up”, which according to my GPS is in fact north-east. Since the stream is the only track without extremely thick vegetation, I just wade through the water. It’s never more than ankle deep, so that pretty cooling and easy. After a good hour or so, the stream suddenly opens up into a wider pool of water. The pool is a sort of natural basin, and its overflowing feeds different streams going in different directions. And the basin is constantly re-filled by a very nice, not too big, very cooling, waterfall. What a spot! I take of the backpack and everything, and jump into the pond. The de-stress is complete when I pop one of the brewski’s and sip it. Excellent!

After a while I’m getting chilly, so I dry and dress myself, and sit on an old fallen trunk to look at the scenery. Looking up at the waterfall makes me wonder where all that water is coming from. Can’t be only rain. It hasn’t rained in days. Must be a spring then. Interesting. Must find out. Must climb up. Good plan. I strap on the pack, put on my shoes, and start climbing the rocks up the fall. Easy. Well done, Dutch boy. After a few minutes I’m up there. Hm. The stream is now bigger, with lots of rocks and rock plateaus in it. So I continue upstream. Jumping, climbing, crawling, splashing. Some of the rocks are slippery like an eel, especially when they are just below the water surface. Some are very rough and pointy. But I continue my way. Up. And up.

I’m looking at the sky, and suddenly I realize that the sun is going down rapidly. Darn. That was a very bad mistake. I really don’t look forward to climbing back down the rocky slippery stream in the dark. I did bring my brand new military grade tactical HD 250 lumen torchlight of course. Going to the jungle was such an excellent excuse to finally buy one. But still. I decide to climb until the top of the next waterfall and then go back.

This is a particularly steep one. I have the feeling that on the top I will finally find out where all this water comes from. Crap. My foot slips from a rock, and I start loosing my balance. Looking down makes my stomach churn. A fall at this point would be a very, very bad one. A broken leg in the jungle is not a great thing. A broken skull would be even worse. While grasping desperately for something to hold on to, I claw at the rocks, and push myself as close to them as possible. After sliding down for about 2 meters, I finally come to a stop. At the cost of a few bloody knees and hands. But at least I didn’t fall.

Suddenly I realize the situation I’m in. It’s not good at all. It’s getting dark, I’m alone, and I’m in very dangerous situation. Triple crap. Ok, stop worrying now. Climb, boy, climb. I crawl my way up further, very careful now, until I come to the top of the water fall. Looking down makes me want to slap myself. You dumb reckless idiot. Never do that again!

I sit there for a while and think what to do next. Go back? Dangerous. Go further? That will only get me further from home. I know my coordinates, but a GPS is meaningless if there's no way out. I’m screwed. I would like that second Corona now, but with a lot of physical stuff to look forward to, I decide against it. Better get into a safe place first. I turn around to scout what’s further up.

And I stare right into the face of a fat Chinese boy. Sitting on a rock. He stares back at me. While eating his prawn mee. With chopsticks. Slurping. He pauses the noodle gobbling process for a while, and gives me a smile. Exactly the same smile that Jungle Boy gave me. Then he says “don’t climb further. It’s not worth it”. Jungle Boy!

The whole scene takes me so by surprise that I almost lose my balance and tumble back down the waterfall. I’m speechless. Then my brain catches up; the fact that there’s a boy here, is weird. Or is it? If he’s eating prawn mee from a bowl, then that can mean 2 things. Either he made the bowl himself out of jungle clay, caught a few prawns from the stream, and cooked them up. That would make him the ultimate survivor. His belly says otherwise. There must be a place selling prawn mee. And that means there must be a road. Ha! I’m saved!

I smile back at the fat boy, and climb past him. There I see a wide open shallow pool. And just behind it a parking lot. And leading to that a gravel road. Well, so much for isolation and adventure. I clean my bloody limbs a bit, and set out for a walk back. It’s a long walk back, but it’s just the only path there is. No junctions, no side roads. So I walk. After a while it gets dark. There’s a moon. That’s good, it provides more than enough light to walk on the gravel road. A bit disappointing that I cannot really test my torch light, but I’m more happy to be on the road again.

2 hours later, pitch dark, I’m hungry. Suddenly, I cannot believe my eyes. I’m on the other side of “the bridge”. 90% of all people who lost their ways have crossed the bridge. Well, I did lose my way. But the statistics do not really apply to my case. I cross it. It’s actually not that bad of a bridge. Or maybe my perceptions have changed after today’s events. I know it’s still a long walk, but I now how to get back to my shed. It takes me just over an hour.

I climb back onto the deck. The sherpa must have been here and lit the fire pit. Not bad. I take off my backpack, and pop the second beer. With a violent burst it shoots out a massive fountain of lukewarm foam. Jungle Boy is grinning. “Told you so, Dutch Boy. It’s not worth it”. I grumble a bit and wipe off the foamy bear. From the eski I pull out an ice cold new one. And a big juicy rib eye, which goes on the rack over the flames. “You’re wrong, Jungle Boy. This was so much worth every single agonizing minute.”

Just another Sunday

It's Sunday, my bash day. I woke up early this morning, way before the alarm clock, around 6. That's not good. Something is wrong. Then I hear it over the roar of the worn out airconditioning: it's raining. In fact it's raining very hard. I can hear it rattle on the roof tiles over my head, and I can hear it gush out of the rain pipe downstairs. That's bad news, it can ruin my ride. Or not, and I turn around and close my eyes.

7.30am, the alarm goes off. I remember it was raining hard earlier, so I'm in doubt. And there's a simple rule for those situations: when in doubt, just go for it. No regrets. What if I go and it's all muddy and shitty and crappy and wet and I hate it? Nah, we'll deal with it by then. Imagine the other way around: what if you don't go, and miss the ride of the month? That would hurt for at least another 4 weeks. So get up, get in the shower, and get ready.

I mounted the bike rack already last night, it's a bit cumbersome, and not something to do early in the morning. Everything is already packed, I just take the bidon from the fridge, the mini-eski from the freezer, fill my hydro-pack with the full 3 liters, and chuck everything, including towels, a few jerrycans of water, and my toolbox, in the car. A quick sandwich plus a big peanut butter and chili sauce one to go, and a double espresso. Mount the bike, double straps, and go. A quick stop at BHP for a few soda's. They don't have much choice, but they do have ice coffee, that's good. Add a small bag of peanuts to it. The soda's go in the eski (the box has a 10cm layer of solid ice in it, that'll do the trick for a few hours), the ice coffee makes its way into my mouth.

Long live GPS: thanks to the hares publishing the RV point on the website (KLMBH bash directions), it makes my life in the early morning so much easier. And thanks for Google for understanding how GPS software should work: simplicity is the key. Reliability is a good second of course, I learnt that the hard way with that stupid Nokia Maps software: the russian chick giving directions is cool, but the routes make no sense whatsoever. "When possible, make a U-turn, and then, when possible, make a U-turn." I mean, WTF? Anyway, Gmaps works like a charm, and I race to the RV, where I arrive at 9 sharp.

Plenty of time to register, lube the bike, check tyre pressure, set the Garmin (yes, another GPS for the purpose of outdoor activities), and in general hang around a bit. Shake hands, ride around the parking lot, and admire other people's bikes. They all have much nicer bikes than me it seems. And so many brand new bikes! What happened to the crisis that they keep telling me about? Anyway, it's good to see this sport is so alive in Malaysia. And it's nice that there are quite a number of girls/ladies, and kids participating as well. Ok, a quick riders briefing by the master hare. Who wants to be the scribe, the usual question that is answered by a deafening silence. I've done that a few times already, so I don't feel guilty to keep quiet and give someone else the chance to volunteer. If no one raises his hand I'll do it, but they 'find' someone just before that. Good. On On!

Wow, what a nice environment here in Ulu Yam. Very different from the Broga and Semenyih scenes, where there's more plantation and rubber. Here there are more real forests, and bamboo forests, and grass lands. Very nice, I'm impressed. I'm suddenly thinking about dying, why is that? Is that the first stage of dehydration? Anyway, I'm thinking, when it's my time, then this would be a good place. During a ride, after a steep climb, then just drop off my bike, and that's it. Wouldn't that be a great last moment of absolute enjoyment of life? And they can just bury me on the spot. Please don’t think that repatriation of my dead body would help anyone, least of all me. Ok, now I’m getting seriously gloomy, I need some sugar. The last espresso flavored super glue (I mean power gel), goes down, and I can feel the burst of sugar in my blood. I feel a lot better, and a great downhill is coming up.

The dude behind me makes an awful crash when he hits a rock during the steep downhill. The sound is sickening, and without looking I know it will involved blood. Hey, the dude is lucky, he just tumbles in a bush of soft ferns. Good for him. On we go, now inside a thick bamboo forest with lots of water crossings. Wow, wow, wow, this is beeeeautiful. That’s the euphoria setting in, the second stage of exhaustion. But wait, I have a great remedy for that. I stop to sit on an old tree trunk and eat my peanut butter sandwich. Nothing can beat that. Some riders passing by look at me with hollow eyes. I know they would kill me for that sandwich if they would still have the strength for it. Not today suckers! I feel revived and climb back on Chameleon.

There’s lots of trail on this bash with bricks to make it more accessible for motorbikes. It’s horrible if you’re riding a hard tail. Now I understand how the riders of Paris-Roubaix must feel with 200 kilometers of cobble stones. Naturally it hurts my butt, but it’s much worse on the arms, strangely enough. Anyway, all in all it’s a great ride, and 2.5 hours after start I glide back into the parking lot. Exhausted, dehydrated, and feeling on top of the world.

What did I do the rest of my day? I gave my bike a very good cleaning, hadn’t done that in ages. Took everything apart that I could put back together without the help of a mechanic, and cleaned it properly. She’s now standing proudly in the kitchen, where she belongs, waiting for the next challenge. And that will be the Prez! Need to train for that one, I’m not having the stamina to do today’s ride twice, and then some more. Oh, and then I went to Fend, an ikan baker place in Kelana Jaya. Great food! And after finishing this episode of my adventures, my chicken is ready, and the rest of the evening will be in horizontal position on the sofa. Just another Sunday…

Woonplaatsverklaring

What a strange day this is..

It started off good. Alarm clock at 6.30am, woken by the annoying voice of this dude called Ben from Fly FM, talking nonsense as usual. One snooze only, and I'm out at 6.39. Quick choc flavor protein shake (with a single espresso mixed in to get rid of the plastic taste), fill up the bidon, and on the bike I was. It was just getting a bit light. It takes me 18 minutes to ride around the hospital, over the pedestrian bridge (with Malaysian style wheelchair access, meaning you can do anything but not get your wheelchair in between the poles) crossing the highway, into the wet market, pass the Indian butchers, down the wheelchair ramp, jump over the enormous storm drain that will guaranteed catch the last surviving persistent wheelchairs, against traffic, avoid the garbage truck (boy I love the smell of garbage in the morning), pass the Indian temple (as usual the incense burning my lungs), into low gear at the park entrance, and up the hill, over the top, then catch my breath at the entrance of the trails 4K and 2K.

7.11am, and I'm going in. I must admit I'm a bit scared. Why? Last time I did the 4K trail I was seriously harassed by monkeys. They can be quite fierce, and the last thing you need when you're alone in the jungle, is the sharp teeth of a herd of bloody monkey ripping in your flesh. Not sure if 'herd' is the right word (nice rhyme, nerd), but you get my drift. So I had to quickly retreat, and find my way off-trail (smart move, idiot) to bypass them. Today I came prepared with my can of pepper spray. I've never used it, and it would be an absolute last resort. Not because I want to protect the monkeys (to hell with the little buggers) but I might make a clumsy move and pepper spray myself. That would give the pesky primates a field day of course. Anyway, they are always quite deep in, so the first leg was trouble free, and my mood became more the usual endorphin-high that comes with racing down a dark trail over slippery roots. It had rained last night, so it was particularly wet and slippery. Not muddy, mind you, the jungle has an excellent drainage system, very much unlike everything built in the rest of KL by humans. Just super slippery, like a bucket of snot was poured over the trees and their roots, giving the extra thrill of the front wheel constantly feeling just a touch out of control. It requires a very subtle balance of braking pressure on front and rear wheels, and shifting rider weight fro and aft. Obviously, I do not have those skills, hence the thrill.

Then suddenly I can smell them: monkeys. A very strong and pungent smell that is unmistakably their mark. It's still too damn dark under canopy of the jungle, but I can hear them as well. Shit oh shit. I speed up and too my surprise for the first time I make it over a particularly steep, slippery, and rooty turn without even thinking about it. I let out a big "Jippie!!", and 2 things happen at once: the monkeys stop in their track, scared, startled, or at least surprised by my girly scream, and at the same time a few golden rays of early sunshine light the single track. I'm on top of the world, literally flying, and at 7.28 I come crashing out of the shrubbery, to the great annoyance of the senior citizens going for their morning walk. The world is just AWESOME.

Racing back home, hungry like a horse. Having breakfast while watching yesterday's Dutch news on vodcast. Another coffee while doing my e-mail, a shower, getting dressed, and then reality of the day sinks in: I have to go to the bank. Oh no! I hate banks. To make matters worse I also need to go to the embassy. No no no! I hate embassies! But I've run out of excuses, I can't postpone it any longer. Need to collect the ATM card at the bank first.

Surprisingly light traffic, I can almost reach 50 k/h, and before I know it I'm in front of the bank. One of the biggest nuisances at the bank is that there's no proper parking. At least that's what I thought. But I have to admit that was already 2 years ago. And today I arrive, and they have valet parking!! How perfect is that! What's more, they charge less than the shitty open parking lot behind the bank. Perfect. I go inside, and a girl approaches me. Now what, I think, must be some stupid survey or promotion for another credit card or something. I prepare to snub her, but then she asks me "may I escort you to your service officer, sir?" I'm stunned, and after a stupid "ehm, sure!" she brings me to a seating area with truly comfortable chairs, and asks me how I want my coffee. Just to annoy her (she is a banker, after all) I say "cappuccino, please", knowing she will bring me some horrible surrogate 3in1 crap anyway. 1 minute later she returns, with an amazing cappuccino! I am amazed! And now I understand why the bank costs are a bit high at this bank. It's actually worth it, I should come here more often! Hardly enough time to finish my superb coffee, because she's back already with my ATM card, and asks me if there's anything else she can do for me. I'm a bit in doubt, but then decide against asking for a massage, happy as I am already.

So far so good! One last stop before the office: the embassy. The last stronghold of true Dutch bureaucracy that I cannot avoid sometimes. And boy, do I hate it. Located in a miserable office tower on top of a miserable shopping mall, it's nothing less than horrible. They have tried to copy the looks of a bank from the 80's, including the bullet proof glass. Why on earth would they want to have bullet proof glass between me and the girl behind the counter? There's nothing there! Not even any person important enough to have diplomatic plates on their car. Definitely no ambassador of course. I know from bad experiences they open only from 10-12 in the morning, and not on Fridays, so I have planned this small window of opportunity well. I need to get a so-called woonplaatsverklaring. The word alone is solid proof of red tape. Who invents such a stupid long word for something so simple? What it actually means is an official form saying that I live in KL. Why is there a need for such a stupid declaration anyway? Because I need to renew my driving license, another great example of hidden unemployment gobbling up your tax money. The worst thing is, they charge me 30 bloody euro's for the paper, that they issue based on an envelope from SPAM mail from an electronics shop in my area, where I had to fill in my address for some warranty. Unbelievable. Remind me to go to the Queensday reception next year to drink and eat my fair share (and some more). Now I understand how they finance that extravagant party with fresh herrings flown in by diplomatic mail bag. Bastards. Anyway, the whole thing takes only 30 minutes (after all, they do need to type in my address, and typing skills is surely NOT a requirement upon application at the embassy), and I'm on my way to the office. Finally.

At 11am I arrive in the parking, and to my surprise the lobby is packed. I wonder what's going on there. Security is plentiful, and they smile and salute at me. Good man. I hop in the elevator, and exit at 19. Once in the office, I have not unpacked my bag yet, or a sudden excruciating loud piercing bell shatters all my hope for a fruitful day. FIRE-F***ING-DRILL. Please proceed to the assembly area in an orderly manner. That's 19 floors down by stairs, thank you very much. Of course the stairs are jammed. Narrow staircases from last century, that never works. So it takes about 20 minutes to get downstairs. In case of a real fire we would all be burnt to a crisp by the time we reach the food court at first floor. I am repeatedly reminded by the fascist fire wardens that it's a really bad idea to use my iPod while walking down the stairs. I don't understand. Why is that? Is it dangerous? Well, yes, they say, it is dangerous, and maybe I would not be able to hear the public announcements. Well, don't blame my innocent iPod for that! It's that bloody fire bell that keeps frigging ringing like it's happy hour! Speaking of, I feel like having a beer once I'm downstairs. Is that what they call a Pavlov effect? I'm also not supposed to use my mobile phone, they say. I might trip. Who's the one tripping here, warden?! Would you please calm down a bit?

Anyway, all good things come to an end. We do a headcount, everyone is accounted for, and I don't bother to wait for the all-clear sign from the bomba. I've done my best to play along, now I really need to do some work. That's the advantage of having 2 offices. I can go to level 54 in KLCC and finally do something useful. Unless they start the fire drill here as well.....