"I see two moons. I drank some of whisky Tuinche brought." That statement, from the Rev. James, was delivered in a casual tone. But it rang out like a pistol shot that clear night on the Sunkosi riverbank. In the deepening silence, we held our collective breath; hearts hammered, and I hoped we were downwind from the Reverend. Class comedian and mimic par excellence, Tuinche attempted a laconic response. Didn't fly. In the midst of the 'identify the constellation' lesson we did on camping trips, the reverend gave us a sharp reminder that us 8th grade whippersnappers were nowhere near to pulling the wool over his eyes. For earlier in the growing dusk, Tuinche had stealthily unwrapped the contraband tucked away the bottom of his backpack. Most times, it took a few well aimed cuss words to get volunteers to fetch water. But not that night for there were several uncharacteristically eager volunteers heading for the river nearby. Armed with a dented and soot blackened pot the lot pretended casual haste as they marched to the river and scooped up some clear mountain water. Into which was surreptitiously poured the hooch. Taking turns, hasty gulps were swallowed, all the while pretending animatede interest in the chilly waters rushing past. Had to be rainbow trout and carp fishing that was on our minds. Yea, like we could tell a mackerel from a dolphin. For a chap that had a special distaste for OH-group fluids, I surprised myself by taking those few gulps. Arghh, it tasted like..sheesh. Not quite as bad as some of Sishne's camp cooking, but that was setting the standard pretty low. It weren't for me, I concluded. Still, it was mostly a sure fire source of levity. Such as summer days in grade ten that whenever I sometimes noticed a classmate come back from lunch break with a crooked, if sloppy, grin on his face I knew I could expect a musical exhibition of sorts. Dignifying what then ensued as musical would be a stretch, but I'll not quibble such details as was an expression of some sort. Back at his desk behind me, the fellow would grab a protractor and pen and start hammering a wild staccato on his metal geometry box. Was it the Deep Purple or Pink Floyd sloshing around in his head? Whatever it was, it now flowered into full artistic expression, encouraged in large measure by the four or five glasses of sauni especial jaand that had helped wash down his lunch a short while ago. For the next several minutes, with eyes closed in focus, he?d do his best take on Nick Mason and perhaps a bit of Roger Waters thrown in for good measure. That sometimes led me to wonder if he bore any family resemblance to Cacofonix. Toc, toc, toc, that singer was crazy. Then there was the time another feller, a James Dean wannabe with this BSA motorbike and tall tales of gang fights. Loaded to the gills on some of ye olde sauni especial, he'd sometimes yank out that rusty Ram Singh chaap knife from his jeans and provide a dramatic enactment of how he faced down the roughnecks in some fight in Dillibazaar. Was it fact or fancy? Who knew, but what mattered was he believed it, and it was good listening anyway. Except for the time when his power slide demo partially shredded my father's favourite roses. This gave rise to an instant vision of the old man sighting down the well-oiled barrel of his Holland and Holland 375 magnum. He'd intended to hunt water buffalo with that canon, and I idly contemplated what effect it might have on the engine block of that BSA. With alacrity, I hustled that would be pre-Kollywood martyr out the gate and bade him a hasty farewell. The piece de resistance, of course, was when we were preppies in college. With the flat mate's sister and her friends gathered to provide us lads, far from home and country, a somewhat meaningful day of blessings on Bhai Tika, the man of the moment became Mike. For on a dare half an hour earlier, he'd guzzled nearly a half bottle of liquid gold from Scotland. Our man felt the effects in a hurry just as we sat down to eat, steam rising from the laden plates. In front of all assembled, out came his breakfast in one go, right onto his plate. Hic. Cheers, all !