by Nick Cummins
I’d heard great stories of golden eagles, one of nature’s deadliest birds of prey, attacking and defeating snakes, deer and wolves. And how since the middle ages Mongolians have trained them to be hunters for their villages.
So I booked one day in advance then launched. I told the sheila my plans and that if she wanted in there would be no complaining about there being no dunnies or showers. ‘You’ll have to bog in the dirt’ I told her and she agreed to the terms – a good sport. All was set. Or so I thought . . .
‘YOU’LL HAVE TO BOG IN THE DIRT’ I TOLD HER AND SHE AGREED TO THE TERMS
As we boarded the steel chicken I get an email from the tour organiser saying ‘DO NOT BOARD THIS FLIGHT – your visa won’t be ready and you will be arrested on arrival’.
Nonplussed and having already ordered an assortment of food and beverages, I figured I could do a night or two in the slammer. I mean, I don’t get much time off in my job so I was willing to take risks to get ’em.
Hell, I had the whole flight and a heap of tinnies to come up with a plan and as we landed I handed the missus all the money and told her to go and stay in the capital, Ulaanbaatar, until a flight could be booked to get her out of there.
We land. And with my heart racing I hear customs officers calling my name out. But this is Mongolia and they’ve got no idea what I look like, so I decide to run the gauntlet and bypass them and head straight to the information desk. With the charisma of James Bond, I begin a wonderful story of heartfelt innocence featuring minimal truth and come clean on the whole thing. And to my surprise, she bought it! Not only was I allowed to stay but she escorted me to my bags and I may or may not have left with her number . . .
I was in! I’d escaped a prison sentence. And now I had some hunting to do.
We caught a two-hour domestic flight to our next destination and then hit the frog and toad for three hours covering all kinds of vast landscape – flats, riverbeds and massive mountain ranges – before arriving at our humble destination in the middle of bumf**k nowhere. I couldn’t have been more excited!
“YEAH LOOK, THERE’S A COUPLE OF BIG HOOAHS GETTING ABOUT.”
TRANSLATION: ‘They have some monstrous players. I’m a little scared.’
MONGOLIAN ADVENTURE PART: 2
We were immediately greeted by the host family offering a bounty of produce – goat cheese, horse milk and vodka. The vodka was to help you forget about the horse milk.
It was middle ages luxury. We slept on the floor of a traditional nomadic tent and I was having one helluva night’s sleep before being woken by the sound of a camel being milked.
Figuring it must be early morning, I decide to duck out to empty the tank. And at this time it’s semi-dark so I just stuck my head out the metre-high door only to rub noses with a yak! It scared the living shit out of me. The bastard’s horns were big enough to cause some serious damage and I didn’t want to be no yak’s bitch.
So I turned on the pace, got past the bastard and the camels and was just 15 metres away from the house when I heard a familiar yet sickening noise beside me. Fearing the worst, I turned around only to have my greatest fears realised – it was the 60-year-old lady of the house snapping one off right next to me! My nostrils took a real hit and I wasn’t sure if I should greet her or pretend I didn’t see her and just start walking. I chose the latter. But the image and sound of an old lady dropping a 2 ×l 4 and looking up at me with a bung eye will remain with me even after I’m dead. And I considered ending it there and then.
I DIDN’T WANT TO BE NO YAK’S BITCH.
By now, I was well awake and jumped into a stream of melted snow to freshen up and scrub myself clean.
MONGOLIAN ADVENTURE PART: 3
Now cleansed of the surprise stench and having laid some groundwork of my own, it was time to hunt. By horseback we headed out into the mountains with our guides and golden eagle and falcon handlers. Watching those glorious birds circle and swoop for foxes and rabbits was nothing short of sensational.
In one of the hunts we were a couple hundred metres up on a ridge when a fox shot out from a cave underneath and just pinned his ears back. It was on! Our guide galloped to the edge of the ridge, removed the helmet from the eagle’s head and within seconds the big bastard launched off the cliff just screaming and tearing down on the fox.
The fox zigged and zagged like Wendell Sailor but it was outmatched, outclassed. But full credit to the shifty fox, because as the eagle zeroes in he decided to give it one last effort and turned to face the eagle head-on and attacked.
These eagles have claws the size of a man’s hand and it gripped the face of the fox shut with one foot and the other gripped the guts. It was all but game over. But it’s important not to let the birds suffer injury during the hunt, so the eagle handler must hurry down to catch and dispatch the fox quickly so the eagle won’t be hurt in the struggle. It was glorious.
HE DECIDED TO GIVE IT ONE LAST EFFORT AND TURNED TO FACE THE EAGLE HEAD-ON AND ATTACKED.
We celebrated that night with sing-alongs. I attempted to show my vocal prowess but I struggle with English let alone Mongolian chants. But with the bulk vodka I provided no one seemed to care and the old man and I were best mates.
It was one of my best tours yet and highly recommended. Go on, pull your finger out and book it!
Oh yeah, that week in Mongolia was my prep for the game against the Wallabies at Twickenham. Best training camp ever.
TACKLE PRACTICE
When I was around 12 years old, Dad would take me and other kids around to our cousin Ben’s farm when it was time to muster the sheep. No wonder the Kiwis hate me . . .
He would be able to get most of them but there was always a handful that were as defiant of authority as we were. You know, harder to catch than a cab at 3 am.
So we would be sent in to bring ’em in. The kind of job as an adult you’d dread but the type of mission a kid lives for.
I WAS DICK-HIGH TO A MIDGET AND A FLAT-OUT 50 KG WRINGING WET
Dad and Ben would have a few tins and watch our attempts, Dad just praying for that Funniest Home Video moment. I was dick-high to a midget and a flat-out 50 kg wringing wet, up against fully grown sheep – not to mention a ram! It was the biggest bloody sheep I had seen, with horns to intimidate anyone. But it wasn’t the ugliest thing I’ve wrestled over the years . . . Which is a perfect segue to the ewes – the female sheep.
They were quickest but didn’t have an aggressive streak in ’em, so they were easier to get in. I would herd them to a corner and charge them, dive and try and grab their legs. But it wasn’t that effective. And just to be clear, we’re talking about a 12-year-old boy and sheep . . .
I was quick to work out that, if you dive and grip the wool first then while they are dragging you, pull them to the ground then sit them on an angle with their bum on the deck while holding the front two legs, this would make them become still and easier to manoeuvre. The job was almost done and I was looking like the protégé of the famous bloke from Snowy River.
But then there was the bloody ram. Like a big kid in the schoolyard, the plan was to tire him out before taking him down. And as I made my approach he pointed his horns toward me and paused. It was now or never and I continued to charge in, adamant I’d called his bluff. Wrong.
All of a sudden he charged me and the shoe was on the other foot. I took off like a schoolkid from class and in that split second the ram knew he had the mental edge on me. I could see it in his eyes.
But more fearful of the carry-on from everyone that would ensue if I gave up ‘scared’, I faced the beast yet again. And this time as it came at me I braced for impact and grabbed his horns at the same time.
IN THAT SPLIT SECOND THE RAM KNEW HE HAD THE MENTAL EDGE ON ME.
I was tossed, smashed, dragged around and grazed but I hung on for dear life and managed to flip him.
I don’t know who was more buggered but my reputation was intact. Forget the Kiwis, if you need a sheep taken down, I’m
your man. Wait, I’m not sure that comes across right?
“YOU’RE AS TOUGH AS WOODPECKER LIPS.”
TRANSLATION: ‘Woodpeckers are birds that use their own beaks to break through wood and make houses and find food. You get that? They use their own lips to break wood. You can’t get tougher.’
THE CAFFEINATED CASHIER
I was 15 years old and fed up with labouring so caught myself a job at the air-conditioned shelter known as Woolworths – one of only two remaining employers in Australia nowadays . . .
Anyhow, like any kid, I worked weekend and night shifts after school and this one day I was particularly buggered. I’d had all but no sleep from a party the night before and was about to start an eight-hour shift.
And so it would be the day I had my first coffee. And make no mistake, it drew plenty of attention in the lunch room as I made it.
Not having made a coffee before, I nonchalantly filled three-quarters of a styrofoam cup with ground coffee, with just enough room for hot water. ‘That’s how they do it in the ads, right?’
I was pretty confident in my coffee making ability even as an amateur, so when the deli lady raised an eyebrow and asked if I needed some help, I gave her a quicksmart ‘No thanks, I’m good, lady’.
‘WHY DO PEOPLE DO THIS TO THEMSELVES?’ I THOUGHT TO MYSELF.
I tried to mix it but it was very lumpy. But being late as usual I had no time for stirring, so I skolled the thing and felt every scratch on the way down. ‘Why do people do this to themselves?’ I thought to myself. And as far as I knew, it wasn’t even working. I was just as tired as I was when I made the damn thing.
Then all of a sudden, about 20 minutes after consumption, the whites of my eyeballs suddenly bulged with a simultaneous bing! And from nowhere, I was on the burst!
I was fanging three items per second through the till, flinging cans of baked beans from one hand to the other like a cocktail barman and passing the scanner and beeping all the way through.
Customers were stoked and getting out of the joint in record time. And all was well until an hour had passed. And without any brekky, my world began crumbling like the Greek economy. I then hit the lowest low and picking up every item was a punishment.
I WAS FANGING THREE ITEMS PER SECOND THROUGH THE TILL
But two momentous things happened that day: History was made when stats showed I had achieved the fastest scan rate in store history. And I realised the only way to beat the coffee comedowns was to keep drinking the bastards until the coffee pot ran dry.
“I’M LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING OUT THERE AND SEEING PLENTY MORE OF THE SEED IN 2014.”
TRANSLATION: ‘A seed is shaped like a football. A seed is also imperative to growing something – like a score. Therefore, seeds are vital to survival in life and sport.’
QUICK FIRE
I didn’t mind working at Woolies as a checkout chick but I sure as shit didn’t take it seriously. Which, suffice to say, the store managers didn’t take too kindly.
With my rugged good looks and boyish charm, I could generally get by with a smile and was on good terms with the hierarchy. Until one day when it all came crashing down.
It was Christmas time and my supervisor, who at this stage I was on good terms with, approached with reindeer antlers for me to wear on my head. I wasn’t having any of it, so after barely a glance I quickly turned away to serve a customer. ‘Nick! You have to wear it. It’s company policy and part of the uniform,’ she says.
Never one to get into a barney, I say ‘righto’ and keep going about my business – working sans the reindeer antlers. You think that was the end of it?
‘You had better have this on by the time I finish handing these out,’ she says. And when she returns a few minutes later to see the antlers haven’t moved, she just stares at me as I shrug my shoulders and say ‘Can’t do it’. I’ve since learned that women don’t take kindly to that response. Nor bosses. Nor people in general, in fact. ‘If I decide to go to head office you could be fired,’ she continues. To which I reply: ‘Do what ya gotta do, babe. I can’t bring myself to do it.’
I’VE SINCE LEARNED THAT WOMEN DON’T TAKE KINDLY TO THAT RESPONSE.
Thinking that was the end of it, I went about my day triumphantly as all the other poor bastards were forced to stand eight hours straight wearing fake antlers. I mean, as if working the registers wasn’t bad enough?
But as I successfully finished my shift without the assistance of the precious antlers, the manager approached angrily: ‘Nick, why wouldn’t you do it?’ To which I replied: ‘There comes a time in a man’s life when he has to make a stand for what he believes in. And for me, this is that time.’
I was yet to celebrate my 16th birthday.
THE UNEXPECTED
I don’t expect this to make sense to you right now, but the information I’m about to give you will make sense come the end of the story that follows. In some juvenile circles, and made famous by a movie or two, there’s a game called ‘Goat’ – it’s basically a penis-pranking game amongst male friends where you lure an unsuspecting mate into looking at your junk without expecting it and then ridicule them for being a pervert.
Continue . . .
So, Grand Plaza is a major shopping centre in Browns Plains, south of Brisbane. And occasionally when I’m home we slip down to do some shopping for essentials like beer, wine, steak and beer. And to just have a gander at who’s who in the zoo. You never know who you might spot there – maybe a performance from whoever came ninth on Australian Idol in 2009. The joint is like that scene from the bar in Star Wars – creatures of all shapes and sizes, great and small. And plenty of Ed Hardy. It’s out there!
Anyhow, after snagging a shake from Wendy’s, a few cinnamon doughnuts fresh off the conveyor belt, we took off home for an afternoon of carb loading.
We were driving behind a beat-up old yellow van and the standard jokes came to mind: ‘If the van’s a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’; ‘Never trust a van with no windows’; and ‘If you see something, say something.’
And sure enough, no sooner had the van pulled up at the lights than the rear door burst open and out the back launched a tied body! Holy shit! On second look, we thought it was a dog and then on third look realised it was in fact a goat. Phew. But the poor bastard was tied around the neck and only his back legs touched the road.
NOW, ME AND THE OLD MAN LIKE HUNTING, BUT WE’RE NOT ONES FOR ANIMAL CRUELTY.
Now, me and the old man like hunting, but we’re not ones for animal cruelty.
So, just as the light turned green, the old man threw the car into park, jumped out, sprinted and started belting on the van’s driver-side window.
The bloke driving was understandably shit-scared. He’d be forgiven for thinking Dad was a homeless man attempting to wash his windscreen with nothing more than a mouthful of spit and his singlet. And in a deep Middle Eastern accent he says: ‘What you want?’
Well, Dad, cool as a cucumber, just says: ‘Mate, I think your goat fell out!’
Time stood still as I realised what I had just witnessed. Lucky for Dad, the driver didn’t call him out for being a pervert.
The goat was saved. And it still brings a smile to my dial when I think of Dad telling a bloke his twig and berries had fallen out.
“YEAH, MATE. I BLOODY WAS LIKE A RAT UP A DRAINPIPE IN ONE OF THEM RUNS THERE.”
TRANSLATION: ‘Rats can run up drainpipes. But only if they gather enough speed. That’s how fast I was running out there. Quick enough to run vertical.’
BILLABONG HOPPING
If there’s the chance of fish or the risk of danger, I’m more than eager to get involved. So when my brother suggested heli-fishing, I jumped at the chance to throw a line in from height – like that Dreamworks cartoon before movies when that kid drops a line into the ocean from the half moon he’s sitting in . . .
Basically, it involves whacking all of your gear, beer, bait and ammo into a chopper and heading to the billabongs and
small bodies of water south of Darwin.
And given I’d just broken my bloody hand in a match against Argentina, ruling me out of the next leg of the 2013 Rugby Championship, I was only too happy to go fishing and forget about it all.
It was me, Dad, my brother Luke, a mate of ours named Braedon, two choppers and a pilot who went by the self-proclaimed name of ‘Batman’. And with the choppers fuelled up, doors removed and blades pumping, it was time to get the hell out of Darwin and find us some fish. Nothing was safe. We had everything short of infrared.
Ripping across the lowlands of the Northern Territory, wind in your hair and stubby in hand, I felt like Fabio – the most beautiful man in the cosmos. And quite honestly, taking into consideration the crew I was travelling with, it wasn’t far from the truth. Dad’s got a face like a robber’s dog and Luke’s has been described as a half-sucked mango. Anyhow, now to drag something in!
I FELT LIKE FABIO – THE MOST BEAUTIFUL MAN IN THE COSMOS.
Batman buzzed the billabongs to make the crocs jump. But I reckon we jumped higher. Those giant amphibious rigs were just as hungry for a feed as we were, so we got outta there quick smart.
And soon enough, buzzing along at tree-top level, we spotted our pond of domination. So down we went.
It reminded me of one of the old man’s Vietnam stories about three against 30,000. But in this story it was we, the invaders, who were outnumbered. But we weren’t out-gunned.
We had more rods out than the Lang Park urinals at halftime. And with our lures to the ready, we cast our lines. And whack! First flick I’ve hooked me a big ol’ grunter. Dad then proceeded to pull my lure from his leg and I cast again . . . This time, I hooked me a real grunter – one that didn’t swear at me.
