Ship Happens: Travelling With Old People

As my cruise holiday approaches the final destination, I cannot but feel a need to be reflective after many days of being purposefully circumspective. This is my first holiday since I turned 60, suddenly the senior citizens are no longer “they” to me, they have become “us”.

The Captain’s welcome speech informed me that one day’s cruise is equivalent to a gain of one pound in weight. It took my slowing brain three attempts to work out that I would gain 5 kg in ten days. My personal challenge of only bringing slim-fit tight pants with me suddenly appeared foolish.

At lunch on the first day, I overheard a loud Asian woman sharing her story with a companion about how she and her 85 year-old husband almost missed their flight. They overslept, failed to hear their alarm go off, or maybe they forgot to set it, or maybe they set it to pm instead of am? The taxi was blaring away in the wee hours, late to fetch them to the airport. She had to shake her husband to wake him up. He was all shaken up, and in the taxi, he told her he had forgotten to bring his reading glasses with him. That’s alright, darling, you will just have to forgo reading when we are at sea. They got into the plane breathless, hardly had time to buckle up before the plane took off. Phew, that was intense. As she started to relax, she shook her husband and abruptly asked him, did you remember to put on your dentures?!

I met an American couple on the second day. From Denver, Colorado she replied when asked where they come from. It would have sufficed, I am sure to just say from Denver. Is there another Denver somewhere else? Her husband, a substantial man with a substantial weight, returned to our table with an Espresso ice-cream cone in one hand, and a sorbet in the other. Realising that I was looking at his busy hands, he exclaimed convincingly that is why God made us with two hands. They had joined the cruise from Barcelona, three weeks ago. Ah, he would have been a skinny man then, I calculated.

Last night was Beatles Night, which meant a packed theatre. I got into the theatre late, when Yesterday was being sung and lights turned low. The lyrics suddenly hit me, hard.

Suddenly
I’m not half the man I used to be
There’s a shadow hanging over me
Oh, yesterday came suddenly

Suddenly, I hit something hard. I am now an old man, and had walked right into a pillar, either it was too dark for my eyes or was I watching the new fab four and not what I was walking into. Much like an iRobot vacuum cleaner, I crashed onto the pillar blindly, took a step back, and continued away from the pillar without fuss. Now I need a place to hide away. Oh, I believe in yesterday.

Tonight, the ship sailed into Stockholm. The pool was empty, everyone was at the deck level to admire the cobalt Baltic sea lapping at the shore of Statsgården and the nearby 13th century Gamla Stan, or Old Town. Great! I took the opportunity to enjoy a luxurious time alone in a luxurious setting, hopping from the hot spa to the steam room, and from the steam room to the Snow Grotto, a room covered with real snow. All that luxury, all for me to enjoy on my own. Then back to the Steam room. There, Rasputin came into my thoughts, and so did the Romanovs. I felt immense gratitude that we are so lucky to live in the 21st century with all the luxury and conveniences that we enjoy. It was only a hundred years ago, when Tsar Nicholas II ruled Russia. Could he and his family, with all that pomp and riches, have imagined such luxury that we ordinary folk now almost take for granted? My introspection in the Snow Grotto was disturbed by another substantial man of substantial weight. Another old American. Ok, enough of Rasputin, let me drive him out of my mind, empty my mind. I focused on the soft meditative music instead. Suddenly, an uncontrolled fart blew loudly. Not me, the old American with substantial weight chirped with a mismatched squeaky voice. Yeah, sure.

In the change room, whilst drying myself after taking the cold bucket challenge, a much older man, walked in from one of the shower cubicles. Ghostly white in his white robe, he looked much too frail and pale. There were warning signs pasted everywhere, deterring those pregnant or with heart conditions or are immune compromised from enjoying these facilities. He didn’t belong there. I didn’t like his ghostly looks, so I hurriedly left the room. Outside, a gorgeous lanky Swedish masseuse asked me if there was anyone left in the room. I nodded. She knocked at the door, opened it a little and called out: Mr Joseph, Mr Joseph, are you in there? Mr Joseph? No reply. She told me he’s late for his appointment. So, I walked back in to hurry him along. Anyway, this is not a blog about ghost stories…. so I shall not continue.

Oh, let me tell you about the old Welsh woman, she is quite tall but far from skinny. She had noticed I never turned up for breakfast. So, she asked me why. I told her I practise IF, Intermittent Fasting. No! No! Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you must not miss it! Besides, you’ve paid for it, so enjoy it, you’re on holiday! A really kind caring woman, this old Welsh woman. I did not bother telling her about the many potential benefits of IF. Animal research has successfully linked IF to improved heart health, brain health, reduced Type 2 diabetes, reduced risks of cancers, and definitely will result in weight loss and reduced body fat. I could also have informed her about the 2016 winner of the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine, Yoshinori Ohsumi for discovering the benefits IF provide in enhancing the process of autophagy. But, she said I look a bit like Rasputin, so I avoided sounding like a fake healer.

I am totally unqualified, an illiterate in the field of Physiology, best I keep quiet. But I can profess with total confidence one definite benefit of IF is it allows me to ask for packed lunches, everywhere, without guilt. I quite often approach the kitchen and tell them I am fasting, and will miss breakfast and lunch. Oh, yes, I know, it is Ramadan, I fast too! A cook said. And then I get to pack a big lunch, for free. Who says there is no such thing as a free lunch?! Anyway, one afternoon, I was sharing a lift with this kind caring old Welsh woman when she suddenly sneezed. A middle button of her dress popped off and landed next to my right shoe. She casually bent down (with some difficulty), picked up her button and stared blankly at the door of the lift. She never bothered me again about missing breakfast.

The old Welsh woman has an older sister travelling with her. She calls her Older Sis. Older Sis has had a bad fall once, and three missteps so far during their holiday. After following in the footsteps of Rasputin in Yusupov Palace, she had another misstep. I offered a helping hand and told her of my observation, that she tended to be doing something such as closing her bag or putting on her scarf whilst she was walking. Older people should focus on one thing at a time, right? Older Sis was rummaging through her handbag whilst walking towards a terminal after our Peterhof Gardens visit when the old Welsh woman asked her what she was looking for in her handbag. My sunglasses, I think I may have left them in the bus, Older Sis exclaimed with some dismay. A few of us looked across at her, and burst out laughing uncontrollably. Older Sis peered at us with a baffled look, through her sunnies.

This is the penultimate night in this cruise ship, my ninth night. After dinner, I was at the lifts, failing repeatedly to scan my ship card to activate the lifts. Suddenly, it hit me. All I need do is press the arrow up button. Cruise ships do not have access controlled security lifts! Oh no. This local idiotes (an old Greek word that does not mean idiot) from Australia has become an old urghhling too.

St. Petersburg: Stepping On The Steps Of Rasputin

In another life, Grigori and I could have been friends. He was a peasant, uneducated till his late teens, yet rose to become a “Man of God”, and not as the confessor of Tsar Nicholas II as some claimed, but as a personal friend. Tsar Nicholas II, the last Romanov to rule Russia, was unpopular, over-bearing and aloof to his staff and generals, yet Rasputin was able to charm his way into the inner sanctum. For a peasant to become an apparent staret, a holy elder, is in itself a fantastic achievement, but to then be introduced by the “Two Black Princesses” of Montenegro to the Tsar, deserves respectful analysis. How does one accomplish such a feat in a short eleven years? I surely would have gladly followed him in his footsteps to such an adventure. The two sisters who married the Tsar’s cousins, were instrumental in introducing Rasputin to the Tsar and his wife, Alexandra Fyodorovna. Did they think such a move would have been beneficial to them? It wasn’t long before they turned on him. They whispered to the Tsarina, “He is having sexual dalliances with various ladies in St Petersburg. Get rid of him!”

But, Rasputin’s position in the court was safe. Alexandra believed that through his prayers, he healed their haemophiliac son, Alexei. The Romanovs’ belief in his powers gave him considerable power and undue influence over them. Others started to denounce him loudly, “He is a rapist, a paedophile, a fake holy man, he dabbles in the occult, he takes bribes, he’s the secret lover of Alexandra!” Two years before his death, Rasputin survived the first attempted assassination of him, by a beggar woman who stabbed him in the stomach.

On 16 December 1916, a ruse was arranged between some Russian nobles led by Prince Felix Yusupov, the nephew-in-law of Tsar Nicholas, and his British intelligence officer friend, Oswald Rayner whom he met at Oxford University as a student. At the Yusupov palace, Rasputin was poisoned by cyanide, but he did not die. He was then shot in the chest, but he survived that too. How does one survive three assassination attempts?! He staggered up the steps of the basement, and was shot again, in the head. Did he die of that? No one knows, so he was bundled into a bag and thrown into the Neva river. Although a post mortem was done, the report was later lost. Although he was buried, his body was later burned. No, not cremated. Burned, to get rid of any evidence. Many today believe that Rasputin was a good man, not the “Mad Monk” or “Holy Devil”.

But, Rasputin was against Russia fighting in the first World War. Some may think that was because of Alexandra’s German descent, but he was a religious man, his anti-war sentiments were clear. The war-mongers of course could not allow his influence on the Tsar to continue. Ra Ra Rasputin, he had to go. After his death, they found six roubles in his flat, no, he was no charlatan.

Two months later, after an acute food shortage due to a severe winter and loss of farm labourers to the war, the Russian people revolted against the Tsar and forced his abdication. His brother was proclaimed Emperor Michael but he deferred his accession to the throne. The Bolsheviks did not hesitate to grab power instead. Tsar Nicholas II’s cousin, King George V refused to grant asylum to the Romanovs, and so did the French. That spelt their death sentence a mere six months after Rasputin’s demise. Citizen Romanov,（that’s what the Bolsheviks called him）and his family were executed in a basement. The Romanovs may have been spurned by the populace, but today, throngs of people visit St Petersburg and form long queues to marvel at their opulent palaces, churches and royal tombs in Peter and Paul Cathedral.

In death, the Romanovs continue to serve their people. Urghhlings, they weren’t so bad after all.

I felt sad for Rasputin after stepping on his steps in St Petersburg. To my tour guide, he was a kind, well-meaning religious man, but much maligned by urghhlings vying for the Tsar’s favours.

Tallinn: We, Made Of Stars, Are Stars

I was told that the Teutonic Order, founded in 1190 in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, was a Catholic military organisation. What? religious and militant? I suppose this concept is not newly introduced in the 21st century by the Islamists. The alarmists are wrong again. Originally formed as a hospital to protect pilgrims in the Holy Land and the Baltics in the Middle Ages, the Teutonic Order became a military power in their crusade to christianise Europe. Was proselytism to save Europe from eternal damnation or was it greed, a means to expand their power and collect more taxes? They were a naval power in the 13th-16th century, looting much of Europe to augment their chests of levies and taxes.

In 1346, the Order took over Tallinn from the Danes who through Valdemar II of Denmark in 1219, claimed the strategic port for Denmark. After 5,000 years of existence in Tallinn, the early settlers were ill prepared when Valdemar II attacked them. During the Battle of Lindanise, the Estonians were on the verge of victory against the Danes, but a red cloth with a white cross drifted down from the sky, and according to folklore, the Danes surged forward and won the battle upon hearing a voice that said “when this banner is raised on high, you shall be victorious!” Defeated by a cloth, that’s sloth.

But, the Order lost much of their power and influence after the Reformation in Europe. Defeated by Napoleon Bonaparte, they were abolished in 1805 as a military order. Their lust for power and riches brought their eventual downfall.

History shows ownership of Tallinn has changed many times, Danes, medieval Germans, Swedish, Soviets, Nazis and after the Nazi retreat in 1944, the city was annexed to the Soviets. Did many Jews die in the hands of the Nazis, I asked? No, luckily most of them fled when Estonia was acceded to the USSR. Pogroms or violent riots, aimed at persecuting the Jews, “The Chosen Ones” in the Russian Empire started during the nineteen century under the Tsars. It is unfortunate there would be eternal bitter resentment towards such blatant show of favouritism. Envy, another deadly sin, perhaps is why the Jews have faced much pain and suffering.

Estonia finally won back their independence by singing. Without a single drop of blood, this Singing Revolution got rid of 800 years of foreign rule. My tour guide loudly prayed that their independence will last longer this time. Pride of their tribes from over 5000 years will see to it.

Apart from the walled Upper Town on Toompea (Dome Hill), no one will miss the Kiek in de Kök, a 15th-century defensive tower. I must admit its name attracted my attention more than what the tower stood for. Or was it because she stuttered when she uttered it.

After lunch, I attended a documentary in the Observation Dome back on the ship. A very very informative hour-length introduction into the Secrets of the Universe, I was lucky to wake up in time to learn that the universe is made up of billions of galaxies, and in each galaxy there are billions of stars. When a star burns out, it returns all its atoms back to the universe. We are all made of stars, our essential elements are from the stars. Called the “CHNOPS elements” – carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, phosphorous, and sulphur – these are the building blocks of all life on Earth.

In Tallinn, I was made to feel like a star. Lunch was just an hour earlier, remember? After the documentary, I passed by the poolside Grille, and was served some Paella Catalona. I just could not bear to see all that seafood go to waste. Urghhling, someone said that’s gluttony.

So far, there is no wrath, after all this has been a fantastic visit to Tallinn.

Gotland: Is It God’s Land?

Upon my arrival in Visby, the first building that caught my eyes was God’s terminal. Unlike other terminals elsewhere, this one is empty of people. I can only deduce that urghhlings do not have the necessary passport yet to use it. I asked my tour guide why Gotland is so named; no one knows, she replied. Yet, it is obvious to me this is God’s land. Visby in the old Norse language means Village of Sacrifices. In the 14th century, it was also known as Wi, the holy place, place of worship. Today, it is also known as the city of roses, or city of ruins (of churches).

God sacrificed his son for us as the only necessary sacrifice, yet in Gotland, the sacrifices continued for much of medieval time. Visby was once upon a time the most important city of the Hanseatic League, surpassing even Stockholm and Bergen in significance. An ideal stopover for Baltic trade, its strategic location bolstered its power and economy for centuries. Where there is business and wealth, there will also be churches and taxes. The first civil war, in 1288, was the result of revolt by the farmers and merchants against the heavy taxes levied on behalf of the church. The Visby City Wall took over two centuries to build, to keep out would-be invaders and marauders. According to local folklore, King Valdemar IV of Denmark captured the town in 1361 by bribing the local merchants. Left beyond the wall of their city, the city’s defenders were massacred. Today, many ghosts roam the streets of Visby, they have since the 80’s, i.e. 1280’s. My tour guide reminded me to stamp three times on the ground, to appease them.

A maid, fearful of a flogging, after breaking a cup

In the Medieval age, many of the churches were burned down. The oldest, a Romanesque church, St Clement’s church was named after Pope Clement 1, martyred in the 2nd century, by being thrown into the sea with an anchor around his neck. The early Popes weren’t as powerful as I thought, Jesus Christ’s influence should have lasted longer than the 2nd century.

Built in the 13th century on the same square were The Drotten church for the Holy Trinity, and the St Lawrence church. The latter was inspired by German ecclesiastical architecture, it resembles the Byzantine churches of the east. St Lawrence, whom the Roman emperor Valerian martyred in the 3rd century, was roasted alive on a grid.

In Visby, Gotland. In God’s land, let us pause in silence. I am afraid there is no silence here in the city of abandoned churches, the “holy place of worship”. With so much evidence of destruction, greed, treachery and massacres, I am silenced by the screams of ghosts who still roam the city, roasted or grilled. This urghhling shall pass God’s Terminal without entering it.

I missed the boat heading for God’s Land!

In God’s Home: Gudhjem

Finally, I arrived in God’s home today. A quaint fishing village, Gudhjem is situated on the north east of Bornholm. Here, well preserved medieval villages dot the granite island, separated by miles of rape seed farms and a man-made forest.

There are four round churches from the time of the Crusades, why were they mostly built here, I asked. The Bornholm kings fought the church for over three hundred years from 1149. Whoever owns the land collects the taxes. In the end, the church won. Today, the Danes still happily pay taxes to the church. Maybe that’s why it’s named Gudhjem, God’s home. It is also where smoked herring was first prepared.

A fellow traveller, the pretty Asian lady, told me she feels safe here. After all, with a name like God’s home, there wouldn’t be any other place here on earth that would feel safer and happier. Perhaps another reason why the Danes are consistently ranked as one of the happiest people on earth. Hardly any urghhlings here. But of course that’s not true.

Later in the afternoon, the pretty Asian lady suffered a severe migraine. She had to be helped to her bedroom, the migraine tearing her head to pieces inside. Once in her room, she felt faint and curled up like a cooked shrimp, with the shivers. The thumping and piercing inside her head was so intense she forgot she was alone in her room. She swatted at the child who was treating her queen size bed like a trampoline. Stop it, she cried out to the child unaware that there was no one else in her room. Bounce, bounce, bounce, it continued. She peered at the side of the bed, and saw the formation of pressure wrinkles on the crisp freshly ironed sheets as each bounce landed on the bed. The impressions on the sheets were those of a young child’s feet. As she sat up with the horrible feeling of an unknown presence, a dark grey force attacked her front-on. It was strong and cold, like a gust of Arctic wind pummelling her head, exacerbating the excruciating pain of her migraine. She shrank herself under a mountainous quilt, and prayed that she would be invisible to the dark force. A sour taste in her mouth made her queasy and uneasy. With a sudden retch, she was involuntarily yanked out from her previously protective quilt. The slimy asparagus-green vomit spewed out of her mouth, right through the invisible bouncing ghost, onto the soft blue-grey carpet. Right that moment, her husband opened their room door and witnessed the vanishing black cloud disappearing into the wall behind their bed.

Later that night, her husband placed his unwashed undies over the bedside lamp, an old practice to ward off unwelcome guests. Urghhlings, in God’s home, there is no need for unwashed undies.

Coping In Copenhagen: A Traveller’s Tale

At lunch on the Viking Jupiter, I was seated next to a pretty Asian lady, so I shared with her what a friend posted on social media earlier in the morning. Animal sacrifices are no longer necessary since God sacrificed one man, his only son. This is salvation paid for by the sacrifice of a human being. Isn’t this worse than taking the life of a rooster or a goat to cure someone’s ailment, I asked?

Heb 10:4 For it is not possible that the blood of bulls and of goats should take away sins. Heb 10:10 By the which will we are sanctified through the offering of the body of Jesus Christ once for all.

The Dionysian Mysteries of ancient Greece during the times of polytheism were known for their trance-like rituals and spiritual techniques of removing “unfriendly” foreign objects from our bodies i.e. removing maladies that threaten our well-being. These predate the Shamans of Siberia, considered to be the original shamans, by a few thousand years. Basically, they operate in the same beneficial way to their communities, i.e. they ward off evil spirits, act as healers, and others conjure spells or black magic.

The pretty Asian lady told me her story. When she was in her early thirties, she encountered a strange experience of not being able to swallow food. She was able to drink liquids only. After the twelfth day, her husband frightened her by telling her if she continued on without food, she would die. That jolted her to seek out a local shaman that very afternoon. Her shaman belonged to the Dayak tribe of Borneo, their animistic belief accorded him the status of being a descendant of the serpent or dragon. When he saw her, she was no longer a pretty woman by then. Gaunt, pale faced with unkempt hair, she was already almost “not of this world”, as he put it.

With a long, loud shout of “Ooooooh-hah!” and a jug of Tuak (homemade rice wine) in his hand, he invites the spirits, animals and ancestors from the forest to come out. Wailing and howling in a foreign tongue, he prances and skips round and round the sickly woman who is now seated on a brown stool, with a black cotton sheet covering her from the neck down. Abruptly jerking his head backwards as he looks up to the menacing sky, his eyes suddenly turn blood red, and mouth froths with small white thick bubbles. His blood-red robes and golden headgear add the perfect finishing touches to his performance. He grabs the legs of a strong handsome rooster from his bare chested skinny, dark-skinned assistant who was missing a few front teeth. The spectators who have gathered in a circle around them can smell blood in the air as he unsheathes a Mandau (knife) and slits the rooster’s throat. Blood spurts onto the woman’s black cloth, the red splashes on black almost too theatrical. The struggling rooster jerks and kicks as if in tandem with the shaman. The shaman then slits his own tongue and pastes the bright red blood that’s dripping from his mouth onto a piece of yellow paper with indiscernible writing. The sickly woman is by now oblivious to the activities around her, she is unaware that her shaman has stuck that bloodied yellow paper on her forehead.

Later that night, a lady friend from the Uniting Church visited the sickly woman upon hearing she had resorted to the afternoon’s pagan rituals. She sat by her friend and prayed the Psalms until the sickly woman fell asleep.

The next morning, the sickly woman was offered some watery rice porridge, which she devoured in an instant. No, please do not ask me which method worked for me, she said.

*Can the blood of roosters expel the unknown?*

Hope To Cope In Copenhagen

A friend started my day by telling me he avoids earthly things that many of us would find interesting. To be devoid of temptations, I suppose, is what he meant.

1 John 2:15 Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him.

I’m on my way to Copenhagen, excited about my first visit to Scandinavia. Can it be scandalous to some if I shared with them what I hope to enjoy there? Can they cope with that?

I replied to my friend, the Lord created this beautiful world for us to enjoy. How can it be that we are taught not to love the world? And if we did, God’s love is not in us? That’s unsettling for someone who looks for things beautiful, be it living or non living. Could this well-meaning teaching be the reason why urghhlings do not care about the environment that is vital for our wellbeing and future? Could this be the reason why some in our recent history, have destroyed the art, architecture, culture, music, and literature that awaken our senses and add to the colours of life’s palette? Love not the world? Why not, if indeed one believes it’s God’s creation for us? Should we not revere it, care for it, protect it?

I suspect there’s got to be a typo error in the Bible. If any man does not love the world, the love of the Father is not in him. That sounds better to my ears.

Words are indeed the biggest source of misunderstandings. No doubt my friend will say I’ve misunderstood His words.

Ghost Stories IV: Damn, A Lesson In Amsterdam

Yesterday, we arrived in Amsterdam. It is one of the prettiest cities in the world. People are friendly, and environmentally friendly too but that doesn’t mean they are generous. The free Walking Tour was a real eye opener for me. The local guide, Floor, a well informed Dutch girl, holds degrees in Philosophy and English Literature. She told us you would not get a piece of bread from a Dutch friend until you’ve been friends after a year. Amsterdam was a fishing village which had to be continually dammed to prevent flooding by the River Amstel, hence its original name Amstelredamme. Floor, Dutch for flora, traced the city’s history from the 13th century as an important sea port for the Catholic king, whose selling of indulgences to the sailors to absolve their sins before they actually committed them raked in enormous wealth for the place. Right next to the Old Church is the red light district, men with money with nothing to occupy their time except drinking, and seeking the services of prostitutes. On one side of the street, a red door leads to the confession rooms of the church where sins were reassuringly forgiven once the asking price is met by the would-be sinners. These men would then walk across the street to the red rooms with red curtains to commit the sins that they have prepaid for.

The 17th century was the Dutch Golden Age. The Dutch East India Company was valued more than the combined worth of FAANG; Facebook, Amazon, Apple, Netflix and Google. I suppose it’s easy to generate wealth by slaughtering those who did not want to trade with you, and robbing those who have to trade with you. Slavery was so profitable for the Dutch that theirs was one of the last countries to abolish it.

The Nazis occupied Amsterdam in 1940. The Jews were almost wiped out, sent to the gas chambers or labour camps where they perished. The soft velvet glove approach meant the population was less distrustful of the Nazis. The local government officials were paid a bounty for handing over the lists of Jews and their addresses. That meant an easy roundup of the Jews. This was further facilitated by locals dobbing in on their fellow countrymen to collect their windfall gain. Not many could resist the temptation to replace the Jews they displaced as the new owners of their properties. As we walked past the old Jewish quarters, I could hear their distant cries and feel their eternal pain.

It didn’t surprise me, therefore, when my sister who is traveling with me told me she was visited by a ghost last night. The combination lock of her luggage would not unlock. She uses the same 4 digit code for every lock, every PIN number and every password. But last night that code couldn’t unlock her luggage. She googled ” How to unlock a combination lock without the code”, and to her relief was able to open her luggage. Otherwise it would have meant going to bed without brushing her teeth or changing into her pyjamas. After settling down on her bed, she suddenly wanted to find out what code it was that unlocked her bag. She almost passed out when she realised the new code was the same number as that of her hotel room.

The best thing to do when you discover a ghost is in your hotel room is to act casually. So, she quickly tucked herself into the queen size bed which was equipped with a set of four different pillows. Synthetic firm, synthetic medium, synthetic medium special for neck and back complaints and the last one was natural, soft with down feather.

Before she could even nod off, she heard the rustling of plastic shopping bags at the foot of her bed. She knew she didn’t do any shopping, there wouldn’t be any plastic bags in her room. But again and again, the clear and loud rustling sound of plastic bags would not stop.

She coughed loudly and sat up, to make it known to the someone in the room that she was there. As she reached to her side to turn on the bedside lamp, the light turned on before her hand had even reached the switch!

Whoa! She jumped out of her bed and rushed to the main switch near the room door. Before she could even touch the switches, all the lights in the room had turned themselves on.

Panic set in but she couldn’t bring herself to call me. Instead of demanding a change of room, she dived back into her bed with all the lights on. She closed her eyes and was glad the room was now quiet. No more rustling, no more misbehaving lights.

She had her eyes tightly shut and hoped the long walk earlier would take her to her dreams effortlessly. Her tentative peace was spoiled by the rainforest shower. It suddenly gushed out a strong stream of water, but by this time my sister was no longer brave to turn anything on or off. All night long, she heard a pack of dogs howled. And then the tv turned on by itself and blared out the eerie music of Carl Orff – O Fortuna, from Carmina Burana.

The next morning, dazed with hardly any sleep at all, she called me to quickly get to her room without delay. Her four pillows had all turned to just the one type, natural soft with down feather.

Ghost Stories III: The Gold Coin

Indecisive? Flip a coin. Heads or Tails? Or neither?

My wife and I are empty nesters. We have been for some 15 years. Our boys all left almost at the same time, the twins flew away to Manchester together, and not long after that, their elder brother emptied the nest and flew to Perth. The abrupt change to a quiet, grey and empty household was difficult for me to accept, it took almost an eternity for me to adjust. Life before they left home was packed with excitement, fun, laughter, joy. Seinfeld was the resident comedian in our home, rarely absent before dinner time. Their thunderous hearty guffaws may be how they worked up a hearty appetite for their mother’s Hakka food. Their maternal grandparents also occupied the same nest. Their grandma died from emphysema, a relief that her suffering did not drag on. Grandpa followed her five years later after breaking his hip from a fall. We had trouble getting the local stone mason to carve a head stone for him in Chinese characters , but did not think there was any urgency to hurry them. After all, the departed by definition are deceased and as such, would have ceased to care about earthly possessions such as head stones.

One late summer’s night, after a few episodes of Seinfeld, I hollered at the hungry boys to set the table for dinner. Typically, they argued with defective memories as to whose turn it was, each claiming to have complied with the request most recently. “QUIET! Can we have dinner without the din?” I demanded, successfully. As I was about to bite into a chunky piece of sticky pig trotter, we all heard it! The room froze, all five of us looked at one another, eyes wide open, mouths left even wider. The sound came from upstairs. Checking our recollections later, we all heard the same sound. It was that of a coin, rolling on the glass surface of my desk, and then landing on the Tassie oak floor with a definite singular clink before continuing its journey towards the staircase.

I put down my cutlery, hesitated fleetingly before raising myself from my seat. My three sons were quick to follow, but I slowed them down with my uncertainty about going upstairs. My synapses were working overtime, my brain rationalising the futility of bravery and curiosity. But the man of the house has to lead by example. Deliberately with nonchalance, I strode up the stairs but before I stepped on the final tread, I literally froze. We all heard it. Now we all saw it, together. A two dollar coin was resting on its edge on the landing just above the last tread. Not on its head, and neither on its tail. We were flipped over by the coin, but who flipped it?

As I write this, I imagine how frightful I would have been to the ghost upstairs. I stood there with one foot on the last tread and the other frozen in the air, unwilling to plonk itself down on the “Twilight Zone”. Both twins’ heads peering out from my right side, and the eldest’s head on my left. Yeah, a monster with 3 heads attached to its waist. A real urghhling.

The next morning, my wife hurriedly rang the stone mason, and insisted the head stone be delivered to the rightful address to the rightful owner with the correct carvings, without further delay. Decidedly, decisive. Coin flipping works.

Ghost Stories II: The Warehouse

It shouldn’t be haunted. With its 1970’s aluminium framed windows and creamy white paint on its facade, the building I work in still looks quite modern. Built before the last Great War, the warehouse is out of place in the western side of the city that is sprouting new apartments amidst federation era workers’ cottages. It didn’t give me the creeps when I nodded to the real estate agent after the first inspection. I’ll take it, thanks.

I wish I can take back what I said. I should have at least renegotiated the terms of the lease. Hey landlord, I shouldn’t be paying full rent, I wasn’t informed you’ve already sub-let it to a resident ghost. She didn’t take long to show herself. No, I haven’t seen her but I’ve definitely seen the mischief she causes. A mischievous ghost, I can live with that if she can.

It is not true that ghosts only come out at the dead of night, when the owl hoots, and the lone wolf howls.

It is also not true that we should be scared of them. I suspect it’s the opposite, they should be scared of us. We the urghhlings, usually ugly, untrustworthy, easy prey for temptations are prone to violent behaviour. We destroy habitat with total disregard for living things, including ourselves. Ghosts therefore know we can destroy theirs too. Yes, by that, I mean ghosts are living things too.

She can’t be dead. If she were, she couldn’t keep reappearing in my workplace. The first inkling of her presence was when a cup of freshly brewed tea came crashing down from my son’s desk. He and a colleague were deep in discussion, standing no more than two meters from his desk, when she moved his tea cup off the desk. “Rob, why are you mopping the floor?”, I asked minutes later. He casually answered that the cup just fell onto the floor. “By itself?” I asked. “Yes, by itself.”

Soon after, she decided to appear with annoying regularity. I started getting midnight phone calls from Chubb Security, “sorry to wake you up sir but sector four alarm has been triggered off.” Sector four is right in the centre of the warehouse. “Are you certain it’s sector four?” You’d logically think the outer sectors would be breached first, a burglar can’t get to the centre without breaking through one of the doors first, right? “Yes sir, it’s definitely only sector four” he replied. The following day, I would find a few stock items of considerable weight and varying sizes intricately placed in odd patterns on the aisle leading to my office. I am always the last to leave the building and of course I wouldn’t play such stupid pranks on myself.

She must have known I was deliberately choosing to ignore her existence. That’s when she decided to make her presence undeniable.

In the winter months, it gets dark very early. The staff clock off at 4.30 pm. I’m usually there for another two hours by which time it is pitch black in the warehouse. My office is upstairs; a wall window allows me to look down and observe the staff during the day. My eyes play tricks with me once it turns dark. That wasn’t the problem since we know to expect that, furtive shadows, moving figures in the dark isn’t out of the ordinary; but what is out of this world is the GRA GRA GRA noise that emanates from the darkness. It is the sound I frequently hear, during the day, whenever the warehouse supervisor glides his chair along the rubber mat that the packers stand on. When the chair’s castor wheels rub against the ridges of the mat, it goes gra gra gra. She wants me to acknowledge her presence? GRA GRA GRA, GRAGRAGRA, it got louder and the tempo got faster, forcing me to walk to the window and peer down at the darkness. I half expected to see the chair stationary with the gra gra gra continuing. But no, the noise stops and the chair stays put. Quite normal.

The next night, it went GRA GRA GRA again. But this time I was prepared, I had left one light on so I wouldn’t have to imagine moving shadows in the dark. As soon as I got to the window, the noise stopped. I stared at the chair for a good three minutes but it remained still, it did not move by itself. Staring at a stationary chair for three minutes is a long time. Only someone of unsound mind would do that. I told myself I am not that someone, and promptly returned to my desk. But even before I could plonk my backside on my chair, it went GRA GRA GRA down there again.

She’s mischievous alright. But she has never harmed me. Live and let live, right?

PS why do I think it’s a “she”? Napping on the sofa one late evening, not quite in deep sleep, I felt my blanket being softly and carefully pulled up to cover my neck. A caring ghost with a motherly touch. It’s a she, my devil.

It has been over a month since I blogged about my ghost. Last night (12 June 2019), we left the premises early before the day darkened. Yes, none of us want to stay back and work overtime now that winter is upon us. No, we aren’t afraid. It is just not so busy in winter! This morning, a box of Smartboost charger was found on the floor, quite a distance from the shelf where it was displayed. I tried to convince everyone here that it would have rolled off the edge, lest they quit on me. I am still smarting from the comments I received. Urghhlings.