Head Injuries

Head Injuries
Looking for reasons as to why I forget. Maybe too many bumps on the head. Head injuries were merely a part of growing up for me. I have had some very significant cranium / inanimate object collisions. The first was when I was three. I had this small little 3 wheeler tricycle. The paving in the back yard was not level with the gravel driveway so there was a small mound to ride over. Upon riding into the mound, pulling back on the handle bars, leaning back with all my weight, the tricycle did was is commonly know as a back flip. Luckily my fall was broken by the back of my head smashing onto the paving. Tears, blood, screaming. A cold cloth from Mum on the back of the head. Lying in bed. Getting sympathy ice cream.
Lunch time at Primary school. I was 11. Charging around the yard in a red cordial induced frenzy. There were these massive concrete pipes at the “Adventure Playground” as it was called. If you crouched you could run through these tunnels. As I had done many times before. I lined up the tunnel, running like wind, not a care in the world. I was running and lowering my center of gravity getting into the regulation crouched running position to enter the tunnel. I never made it through the tunnel. In fact I never made it inside the tunnel. I charged like a bull to a Matador. Driving my head at a hundred miles an hour into the rim of the tunnel. Waking up, kids screaming around me. Blood. Teaching carrying me to a car. Hospital, a large bandage wrapped all around my head. Taken home. Put to bed. No sympathy ice cream this time.
Out in the back yard. Watching Dad chop firewood with an axe. I would have helped but Dad was determined to keep at it. I guess because he had spent all morning sharpening the axe, no one else was getting near it. I sat down watching. Then found hammer. One of the hammers with the nail claw at the back. Smashing down onto the off cuts. The Son imitating the Father. Still not noticed. Bigger swings. Up and down the hammer pounds. Up and down, up, down, up, down, Up. There was no down motion from the last upward swing. The claw part of the hammer had mistaken the top of my head for a nail and dug into my skull. With a scream to wake the dead I pulled the hammer free. Dad looking at me now with a look of disbelief. More a look of "what has he done to himself this time” More blood, Mum not believing me and telling me to stop being so ridiculous. I remove my hand from my head and let the blood flow. Now my parents have set themselves to Injured Child Mode. Cold cloth, lying in bed, head throbbing. Dad still shaking his head wondering how the hell I manage to do this kind of thing.
It has been a long time since I have had any other head injuries of this caliber. A few punches to the head along the way as is the ape like ritual of becoming a man in this place. I still bang my head on many things. Tables, Bed heads, hanging pot plants and at the moment the flavour of the month is head butting the car window. I know it is wound up but I still try and stick my head through it.
I blame this on not remembering the window is closed due to previous cranial impacts. Observation: Hair doesn’t grow where scar tissue is.

It's All In The Translation

It’s all in the Translation

When ordering food from a menu you usually have a fairly good idea of what you are going to get. Sometimes the portion is not the size or temperature you expected but the content is correct. If you are unsure you can always ask and then receive an over rated sales pitch promoting the tucker of choice.
But what happens when you are in a foreign country where English is a second language and for most of the locals it is a third language? Welcome to the wonderful world of the translation.
Ten years ago I was backpacking in Indonesia and was on the island of Bali. Compared to here in Australia good cheap food is easy to find. You can eat well and have a few drinks for very little expense. On our second night my traveling companion and I decided to have our evening meal at the little restaurant that was part of the bungalows we were staying at. The menu was pretty basic and standard. We took our seats and began to study the menu a little closer.
The items on the menu were all written in Indonesian with the English translation beside it in brackets. Our conversation turned to when we were in high school. Could we actually remember any of the Indonesian language we were taught for four years considering we took the classes as they one of the more slack electives? But then again part of this trip to Indonesia was to give the language a shot.
We decided on Nasi Goreng (Fried Rice) and a Satay dish. There were only two kinds of Satay, Ayam (chicken) and Sapi (Beef). When the waitress shuffled over I decided to practice and asked if there was any Satay Babi (pork). She apologized profusely and pointed to the menu to remind me of their selection. My mate being the quintessential smart arse that he is asked if the served Satay Anjing (Dog). With no reaction signifying being offended the waitress dutifully informed us that we would have to go to the night market in Denpasar if we wished to have that dish. With that joke backfiring I ordered the Satay Ayam (chicken). At least it was white meat and I could be sure my mate’s warped sense of humour didn’t land me eating Anjing (dog). The result was plentiful servings of what we had ordered washed down with a Bir (beer).
The next day we headed out in search of other places to eat. How could we possibly eat at the bungalows again when we were sure all the Staff were giggling at the two Western Dog Eaters staying in Bungalow number 5.
We ventured into a little place called The Silver Fox. We were attracted to it by the three chipped laminated tables and the wobbly coloured chairs that didn’t match. We sat at the table closest to the rickety old electric fan. The fan didn’t do much more than just push the hot air towards you. Bob Marley was playing on the little one speaker cassette player.
The menus were in a form of English and two items caught our attention immediately. The first item being Fred Noddels and the second being Prawns Balls. Well we worked out after saying it out loud a few times that that Fred Noddels were Fried Noodles but Prawns Balls?! Could they actually be the testicles from a Prawn?
“Must get a lot with your serving” I commented.
“Or they are from bloody big Prawns” my mate responded.
Our laughter bought the Chef over to our table with pen and paper in hand ready to take our order.
We ordered two bowls of Fred Noddels and two serves of Prawns Balls.
I asked if the Prawns Balls were Besar (large)
The Chef smiled and nodded and told me that they were indeed Besar.
“Lucky Prawn” I said.
We started and laughing and he laughed along with us but somehow I don’t think he knew why.
After a Bir (beer) or two and listening to some Tracey Chapman (they only had two cassettes) our meals arrived. They were the two biggest bowls of delicious Fried Noodles with veggies and a Sambal sauce I had ever eaten accompanied by two bowls of Fried Prawns shaped into balls.
It is difficult trying to eat the Prawns when your sub conscience is telling you that they are really the testicles from a large Prawn.
Language barrier or not the food was great and we returned many times to gorge ourselves again. We even donated some cassettes so other people wouldn’t suffer from Bob and Tracey on high rotation. We thought about helping them correct the menus but decided against it. Those menus are part of the charm of the little place called The Silver Fox.

Note: Be careful when ordering a large milk (Susu Besar). Susu Besar also means Large Breast.