Dying to Live

Chapter 32 - Take Me to Cuba

I watch as they erect the two-man tent on a flat clearing beside the track. It's an old looking tent with wooden poles and real canvas but it seems a lot sturdier than the tents which Argos sell by the shedful to festivalgoers and back-garden campers.

"Looks alright."

"Doesn't look as though it would survive a tiger attack."

"Optimist," I say as I take the sheets from Akmal and crawl into our new home.

The muted light and musty smell immediately transports me back to my childhood when Marty and I used to take an old green, nearly-waterproof tent to some waste ground close to where I lived. I bet there's not one parent in the country would let their kids do it now but our folks were just glad to get rid of us for a night, even if meant two kids were left vulnerable to the Croydon creatures of the night, and there were some scary night creatures in Croydon.

"What would our mums and dads think of where we are now?" I suck in a lungful of the damp camping aroma and wonder how come Malaysian tent damp smells the same as London tent damp? "Takes you back, eh?"

"The sooner I'm taken back the better. Nothing sounds better to me right now than a cool pint of lager in dear old London."

I drift into a dozing twilight zone where childhood memories mingle with prison horrors in a surreal mishmash of my life.

"Food ready, wake up, food ready."

I open my eyes and stare at the canvas roof. I'm not quite sure where I am – Croydon or Thailand? The heady smell of roasting meats stirs me back into the real world.

"Come on, Dave," calls Marty from outside the tent. "This is pretty good."

The campfire scene in the film Blazing Saddles comes to mind. Not because everyone is farting, it's more the sense of the camaraderie of men round an open fire watching meat on skewers sizzling and browning.

"This is the life."

The others say nothing but everyone nods.

After a decent feed and two warm beers each, Marty and I say our goodnights and scramble into the tent.

"Night."

"Night, mate."

"Thanks for everything."

"No worries, night."

I lie and stare at the canvas. This is heaven, apart from the faint buzz of a mosquito. A quote from the Dalai Lama flits through my head; 'If you think you're too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito.'

I pull the sheet up to my chin and fart twice.

"You couldn't have done that outside?" complains Marty.

"You're welcome."

☼☼☼

"Shit, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck."

My body springs upright as panic crashes me back into consciousness, and it's not a panic about undrawn curtains. Marty is freaking out big style about something and I've no idea what. Tiger attack? Vampires? There's only one sensible response.

"Aaaggghhh!" I scream.

"Aaaggghhh!" cries Marty.

"What the fuck is happening?"

"Spider. Giant fucking spider," he yells as he scooches backwards on his bottom trying to escape through the side of the tent.

My heart slows and my breathing starts to return to normal. Jesus Christ, all this for a frigging spider.