25. The Troubadour and the Scorpion

The next morning as we drove South from Marvejols, we saw signs announcing ‘Les Loups de Gevaudan’. There followed some speculation as to whether the close proximity of these wolves, might account for the ‘Beast of Gevaudan’, which had apparently terrorized the residents of the area in the 1760s, and is the subject of another work by sculptor Emmanuel Auriscote. The conversation must have been lengthy and animated, since in no time we had  passed Millau, followed by Lodeve and were being welcomed by the chatter of crickets, as we descended onto the Languedoc vineyard plains.

The house was clean and tidy, as we knew it would be in Isabelle’s conscientious hands, and a quick trip to the local shops resulted in the fridge being full of wine and beer within half an hour of our arrival.

Jao Chai was allocated the top bunk in Sarah’s room, since the front room had been reserved for some more of Jane’s Singaporean friends. Bong, his wife Sum Jin and their three month old baby daughter, were due to arrive two days later for a week of holiday. I was never quite sure that I fully comprehended the name of the baby, but to me it sounded like ‘Onion’.

My vague intention to construct wooden shutters, to replace the previous economy minded owner’s bamboo roller blind, which was fitted to one of the front bedroom windows, became a definite project within five minutes of Bong taking up residence. The roller blind collapsed into the street at his first attempt to unroll it.

Timber, hinges, bolts, wood stain and an electric circular saw were duly purchased. If the sound of me hammering, drilling and sawing, or the sight of me perspiring heavily, detracted from Jao Chai and Bong’s enjoyment, as they sat drinking beers and reading books at the table in the sunny courtyard, they showed no sign of it.

While Bong and Sum Jin usually wore shorts and Tee shirts, Jao Chai often sat outside clad in just his sarong. When he was feeling energetic, he would sometimes strum his rather lovely sounding guitar. He and Bong would often talk about their days of National Service in Singapore, including lots of exchanges of descriptions of fending off the creepy crawlies in the jungles of Asia.

Eventually after a couple of days and a few abortive attempts, the new shutters were hung. They were not a perfect fit, but better than I had expected to achieve.

During the days that Bong and family were with us, we made a number of sight seeing trips, including an eight hour drive high into the Pyrenees and back.

I felt a little guilty gliding comfortably up the mountains protected from the blistering heat outside, in my air conditioned, Ford Scorpio, automatic, while being chased by Bong, wife and baby, in their little red, rented, Renault 5, with it’s manual gearbox.

Each time I looked in my mirrors, they were either trailing far in the distance behind us, or after slowing down to let them catch up, I could see they were gulping thirstily from one of the several bottles of mineral water they had purchased at our first stopping place.

We ascended the Pyrenees on small back roads to a point where Bong surrendered, requesting that we make our way back to Frasquenet. We descended toward Perpignan on a more major road, stopping at the fascinating walled town of Villefranche, for a walk about and a snack. The town is at the bottom of an almost sheer sided valley, which must have lead to some interesting, attack and defence situations in centuries gone by.

That evening back in Frasquenet, I ate barbequed chicken accompanied by a salad of red, yellow and green peppers, while everybody else tucked into large bowls full of noodles. The next morning Bong, Sum Jin and Onion took their leave and returned to Singapore.

Later that day we took up an earlier invitation of Isabelle’s and visited her house for a lunch of rabbit stew. Daniel had been out with his gun to hunt the rabbit. We never found out if the one we ate was one he had shot, or whether like some other hunters I know, a late visit to the butchers shop had been needed to salvage his pride.

The stew was good and we invited Isabelle, Daniel and their children round for an Asian meal on our last night before going home.

Each day we visited the beach at Narbonne plage, where Jao Chai would dig holes in the sand for Jane, Sarah and himself to sit in. This ritual started one day when a particularly strong wind caused us all to get sandblasted as we sunbathed. The art, which Jao Chai perfected, was to dig holes not quite deep enough for water to seep into, but to get sufficient protection from the wind by using the spoil, to build low walls of sand around them.

I took my chances with the wind, quite enjoying the prickling sensation as the sand tore past me. From their pointing and giggling it seemed that some of the other visitors to the beach, found the sight of these oriental people peering out of their holes in the sand, a little bazaar, especially on days when the wind didn’t materialise. I have to admit, I could understand their amusement.

In the evenings we usually ate at home, before Jao Chai and I made our way to “La petite Frasque” for a beer and a half understood chat with the locals.

When the strain of talking and listening got too much, we would take a break by playing table football or pinball.

The clientele of the bar seemed fascinated by Jao Chai’s Malaysian pirate looks. On one of these occasions, rather than explain that Jao Chai was on his way to Spain to learn to play flamenco guitar, I announced that he was a Troubadour.

This was met with raucous hoots of derision, so I promised that next time we came to the bar Jao Chai would bring his guitar.

As we stumbled our merry way home, Jao Chai pointed out to me that he was on his way to Spain to learn to play flamenco, not on his way back after having learned it.

When interrogated he admitted that the little ditty he had been plucking in the courtyard was the only song he knew and that the enthusiastic strumming bursts had been spontaneous bullshit. He also revealed that he himself had been as surprised as me, at how good they had sounded. Now he had neither the know how, nor the confidence to reproduce them again, especially in front of a sceptical and probably knowledgeable French audience.

We didn’t go back to “La petite Frasque” again.

On subsequent evenings after dinner, we would sit in the courtyard, with Jao Chai strumming his strings, while smoking and sipping chilled wine. I listened, less impressed by his musicianship than previously, watched the stars and gulped the wine.

One evening I spotted something moving along the courtyard wall, investigation showed it to be a small, almost translucent scorpion. Jao Chai with all his experience of the Asian jungle survival, was requested to deal with the probably harmless insect.

Bare footed and clothed only in his sarong, he nonchalantly approached the creature, he then touched it with the hot end of his cigarette. It fell to the ground, arching its tail over its back and charged towards his feet. He was taken by surprise and fell backward onto his hands. I wished I had my video camera with me, to capture the image of Jao Chai scrambling back on his hands and feet, trying to stop the scorpion from running up the inside of his sarong and stinging his crown jewels.

Eventually a swipe with a sandal dispatched the insect. I noticed that from this time on, Jao Chai wore his sandals at all times, whereas before he had usually gone barefoot.

Two days before our return to England, Sarah’s profusion of mosquito bites, turned out to be chicken pox or varicelle as its called in France. I visited Isabelle and regretfully postponed the Asian meal we had promised until the following year.

The day for us to drive home came and we packed the car with our belongings. Even as we drove out of Frasquenet, Jao Chai had not decided whether or not he would get out at Narbonne station, to catch a train for Barcelona and flamenco lessons. Nine hours later we dropped him at a Metro station on the outskirts of Paris. The flamenco lessons would have to wait.

Sarah was asleep when we boarded the midnight ferry. I carried her to a quiet and dark corner in one of the lounges, conscious that spreading disease was not a very sociable thing to do. Once home, the cooler English climate certainly made her feel more comfortable, and she was soon back to her usual self.

We subsequently heard that Jao Chai did make it to Spain where he spent several months in Sitges near Barcelona and then Grenada. Eventually he outstayed his welcome (a.k.a. his visa) and was forced to leave.

He later observed that a course of video tapes “How to play flamenco guitar” which he spotted in a London music shop, could have saved him a lot of money and trouble.