Vlad, the Icepick & a couple of trays of meat - SINGAPORE
Singapore is about as multicultural a country as you could get.
People from around the globe lived and worked on the Island.
I was a Singaporean resident for a decade or so and I returned to my native country just before the scourge of Covid commenced.
Karma has been kind to me and my wife and our two now-grown children. We were privileged to travel much and experience the joy of diverse cultures
We had always been urban city dwellers but decided to move to a regional area when we returned to Australia.
We bought a gorgeous old stone house in a tiny gold-rush era country town a couple of hours drive away from Melbourne. We have an acre or so of land and have a greenhouse, a stable, big vegetable patches and a well. Molly and Henry. Our two golden retrievers like the country life and my just-grown-up kids and their partners and friends visit us often. One of the first things we did when we moved in was install a monster solar system and a Tesla power wall, so we live very green.
It is a great place for lockdowns
We were packed in like sardines in Singapore a steamy and often oppressive environment where the thermometer was always at a constant 30 degrees Celsius, and the barometer was a nasty 80% humidity.
Alcohol consumption was vast by both the natives and we expatriates, and madness was also common. It’s called “going troppo”.
A pall of sexuality and sensuality hangs thick in the air on the Island. Men of what I would call a senior age, walk down the main shopping district of Orchard Road holding hands with their twenty something local girlfriends. Dark globs of cheap hair dye drip in stains down their sweaty necks.
A former British colleague of mine left his wife of fourty years for his twenty-two-year-old Filipino maid.
What could possibly go wrong?
There were many wonderful characters in Singapore and excellent things happened all the time. It was as fascinating as it was bizarre, and it was my muse.
I recall with great fondness one social occasion. It was after an arduous week of work, and I went out – as I often did - to meet some friends for a drink. This was the norm for most nights of the week for many people, but I tended to limit myself to weekends. I also had to travel a lot for my work and was often off the Island during the working week.
There is not much else to do there or can be done - given the heat and humidity. The ocean waters are not swimmable as they were toxic with pollution. The Island has a very poor environmental history.
They were a multinational lot. My drinking friends. There were English, Australians, Germans and a couple of Scotsman. We Singaporean expatriates tend to mingle quite a lot.
I had booked an outside table at a bar that was in the shadows of the Marina Bay Sands hotel and casino complex. It is the huge three building complex that now dominates the Singaporean city skyine. It is the one that looks like it has a giant ship sitting above the three towers. There are some buildings across the globe that are modern iconic. We have one in Australia – the Sydney Opara house with its distinctive shells. Others would the Guggenheim Museum in New York, the Louvre in Paris and the Shard building in London.
The bar I had booked was called "South Coast". It was owned and operated by a group of Australian businessmen and was beautifully situated overlooking the splendour that is the Marina Bay.
I had arrived earlier than the planned rendezvous time and was enjoying a tall glass of lemon, lime and bitters whilst awaiting the arrival of my friends. I am considered to be most ‘un-Australian’ by many of my countrymen and countrywomen as I don’t drink much at all. I did when I was younger - drink that is, but I really do not like the taste of alcohol and like even less the hangover and dehydration after effects of overindulgence.
Whilst I was sipping away at my lemon, lime and bitters beverage, a group of well-dressed businessmen arrived and sat at the table next to me. Their table was a chair short and one of the guys asked if he could use one of the empty ones at my table. I could tell from his accent that that he was Russian.
"Privyet. Da" I told him.
This is Russian for 'Hello. Yes'.
I had quite a few Russian friends in Singapore, so I knew a few words of their language.
"You speak Russian?" he asked
"Nyet", I replied.
This is Russian for "No"
"Well, a little bit" I said.
"Spaseeba", he said as he dragged the chair to his table.
This is Russian for 'Thank you"
"Pazalsta", I responded.
This means, 'You're welcome"
"You do speak Russian" he said.
"Nyet"
"Join us for a drink" he suggested.
"Sure" I said.
I pulled my chair over to their table and introductions were made. I referred to myself as Pyotr. This is the Russian equivalent of Peter, and it is also my name. The Russian men's names were Vlad, Pavel, Oleg and Alexei.
They all spoke very good English.
When I asked them if they lived in Singapore or were just visiting, they informed me that they were there on business. All of them worked for a very big Russian Oil and Gas Company.
The Russians ordered an extremely large bottle of vodka and immediately began throwing it down their throats. They drank shots of vodka like there was no tomorrow. I have drunk with the Russians many times before and their capacity for alcohol is enormous. I had one round with them to be polite but informed them that I was not much of a drinker.
They seemed a little surprised by this.
"Oostralians dreenk beer yes?" Vlad asked me.
"Many do" I agreed.
We chatted quite amicably for a while and the Russians asked me lots of questions about life in Singapore. I explained as best as I could the lunacy of the place and they seemed genuinely interested. Half an hour later my mates arrived, and we joined our table up with the Russians. They were well into their second bottle of vodka at this stage. They had taken their suit jackets off as well and had rolled up their shirt sleeves.
As was always the case in Singapore - it was a warm and sticky evening.
I noticed and admired a vast array of tattoos on the arms of the Russian named Vlad. He was impressed that I was impressed, and he stood up and unbuttoned then took off his shirt. He displayed his whole upper torso. It was covered equally in hair and ink, and it was not a pretty sight.
"Put your shirt back on Vlad" I informed him.
"Nudity of any type was illegal in this country"
"Chto za huy" he spat.
This translates to "What the fuck".
I know this term as many of my Russian friends say it all the time. For reasons I can’t put my finger on my Russian friends on the Island were women. A few were extremely tall and bone-thin fashion models and two Russian friends owned and operated Italian restaurants. I know of no Russia restaurants in Singapore. Their food is an abomination
As with the Russian men that I was with, these other Russian friends were also exceptionally big alcohol consumers.
I occasionally went to some of the fashion shows that the Russian models took part in, as well as the most excellent after-parties that such events conducted. The Russian women were very brash and loud, and I find their arrogance and indolence vastly entertaining.
It was hysterical in fact.
A couple of hours into the evening one of the Australian waitresses at the bar came over to our table with a book of raffle tickets. She said "Gidday fellas owzitgoin?".
She was a ‘bogan’. If you are unfamiliar with this Australian term and you are English, think ‘Commoner’. If you are American, my commiserations but think ‘Trailer trash’.
The waitress told us that her name was Sheila and that Friday nights were ‘Meat Tray Raffle’ night. Sheila informed us that all tables at the bar were being given complementary raffle tickets.
Twelve meat trays were to be given away that evening.
This caused great confusion and bewilderment at our table. The Russians and the Europeans that I was with were perplexed and I had to explain.
"Vot was dees meat ruffle?" the Russian named Pavel asked.
"It's a raffle Pav. Not a ruffle" I replied.
"In Australian pubs there were quite often raffles in pubs where the prize was a tray of meat"
"You’re kidding?" Ernie the Scot said.
"I kid you not Ernie"
The raffling of tickets for prizes of meat trays has been around in Australian pubs for a very long time. I recall with great fondness going to pubs in the New South Wales township of Merimbula with my best mate Berty - when we were in our teens. This was a very long time ago now. Berty lived in Las Vegas in the USA and was quite the Covid sceptic when the pandemic was in its early days, even though his wife was a nurse. Covid killed him about six months ago and I mourn still.
Berty and I won quite a few meat trays in our day. Such trays generally consisted of a couple of pieces of T-bone or rib eye steak, some lamb chops and a dozen or so very fine sausages.
We would take the meat trays that we won back to Berty's parent house on the beach in a NSW coastal village where his Dad Brian would cook them up on his barbecue. Bert's Mum Shirley would whip up one of her gourmet green leaf and potato salads and we would all hoe into a sumptuous dinner.
Berty's younger sister Angela and his crazy older brother Shane would sometimes also be there. We would all sit on the outdoor deck with some icy cold beers as we got stuck into our steak and chops and sausages. We would then watch the sun go down over the Pacific Ocean and chat away.
Those were the days.
They really were.
"Ere youse are” said Sheila.
"Youse guys can ‘ave two whole books of tickets wiv all the booze youse were drinking"
"Thanks love" I responded and took the book of tickets from her.
"When were youse gunna draw the winners".
I slip quite easily into the bogan language when I was amongst my kinfolks.
"Every ‘alf an hour"
"Sweet"
"Breeng us more vodka" Alexei demanded.
I tore off the tickets from the book that Sheila had given us and handed them out to the Russians and my European friends.
As the evening wore on the Russians and my mates got quite drunk. Conversations flowed as easily as the vodka that was being consumed. I quietly sipped away on my lemon, lime and bitters and began asking the Russians about the modern Soviet Union. The rapid change of this country from communism to capitalism was of great interest to me.
There is enormous wealth now amongst many Russians and their growing presence in Asia is as rapid as it is startling. Russians have all but taken over several islands in Thailand. There are even Russian street signs in places like Phuket, where the Russians have built their own hotels. They also run their own tour companies. There are two direct flights from Moscow to the Thai resort island of Phuket every day of the week.
I told Vlad that I had heard that the Russian mafia were amongst the nouveau rich that were spreading their wings in places like Singapore, Hong Kong and Thailand.
"Vot you think zat vee were creemenals?" he roared at me.
"Chill out Vlad" I replied nervously.
"I vas only asking"
As with my slipping into the bogan way of speaking I find that I tend to automatically replace my "w's" with "v's" when conversing with Russians.
I don't know why.
"Of course ve were creemenals Pyotr" he roared again.
He slapped me on the back when he said this. Vlad is a large and powerful man and it bloody hurt.
"Vlad has keeled many peoples" the Russian named Oleg informed me.
"Keeled peoples?" I asked.
"Vith an ice peek" Oleg said.
I looked across at Vlad and saw that he was nodding his head in affirmation. He was also grinning manically.
"You have killed people with an ice pick Vlad?" I enquired.
"Many. I stabbed the Lokhis in ze eyes" he replied.
"Lokhis" was the Russian word for "Fuckers". I have heard this uttered many times before.
"Wow" was all that I could reply.
Two Danish backpackers happened to walk past our table at this time. Both were young men, and they were blonde haired and blue eyed. We knew that they were Danish because they both had the large flags of Denmark sewn on the back packs that they were carrying.
"Deenish Lokhis" Vlad, Oleg and Alexie muttered almost in unison.
The Russians then gave us a vitriolic account of how they disliked all Scandinavians. They ranted and raved in a combination of English and Russian and I couldn't really understand much of the grievances that they were expressing against the people of Denmark, Norway, Finland and Sweden.
They were well into their fourth bottle of vodka at this stage.
I told Vlad that I didn't really know too many Scandinavians, but I had been to a barbecue with a group of Swedish people late last year and they all seemed very keen to take off their clothes. I told Vlad that I ate their meatballs and left quickly before they got naked.
I also told him that I did not like IKEA furniture and I thought that the IKEA flatpack and Allen keys were abominations. I informed Vlad too that the only Danish person I knew was my slightly deranged neighbour named Jens with whom I have had a series of ongoing disputes. This is a whole other storyline good Readers that you will find in later chapters.
Should you of course, continue to read on.
My initial contact with the Dane Jens arose after a rather dramatic pooh-in-the-swimming pool saga. The Singaporean police were called and the whole event was as intriguing as it was weird.
I told Vlad that I considered my neighbour Jens to be an enemy of mine.
Vlad told me with great enthusiasm that he would be pleased to come over to my apartment complex if I wanted him to.
"I vil stab dis Deenish peeg in zee eye vith my ice peek for you Pyotr" he informed me.
Even though he was quite drunk I got the impression that he was deadly serious. It alarmed me.
I started to tell Vlad that such an action wouldn't be at all necessary and was quite relieved when the Australian boganwaitress named Sheila strutted up to our table with a large meat tray balanced across each of her arms.
"Good on youse guys" she announced.
"Youse have won two meat trays"
"You little fuckin ripper" I said in perfect bogan. I then stood up and received them from Sheila.
I handed one tray each to Vlad and to Alexei and they were delighted.
I then told them that I had to leave. I did. It was past my bedtime.
When I departed, we all shook hands, swapped business cards and promised to stay in touch. Vlad gave me a monstrous bear hug that crushed all the air out of me.
"Do Svidaniya" I declared as I walked away.
This is Russian for "Goodbye".
I still stay in touch with Vlad and mostly by email. We also swap text messages on our mobile phones. Having a Russian killer as a friend who is handy with an ice pick may prove very useful at some time in the future.
I was unsure what Vlad and Alexei did with their meat trays.
I suspect that they may have taken them back to their hotel rooms and eaten the meat raw.
Vlad may well have tenderized his first - with some savage blows of his ice pick
Comments