By: Marty Leipzig Re: THe First Love Boat: S.S. Noah Count I had some R+R time coming (spe

By: Marty Leipzig
Re: THe First Love Boat: S.S. Noah Count

     I had some R&R time coming (speaking of which, next time I go there,
     I'm going to load up on Pink Floyd, ELP, Tull and such. Those tapes
     sell for major rubles over there...), so in the spirit of
     interdimensional amity (fundies, IMNSHO, exist in another parallel,
     although bent, dimension), I decided to catch an Airbus to Ankara,
     rent a Zhugli and overland to the Agri Dagi area for a bit of
     sightseeing, shopping and science.

     I arrived in Turkey with a near death dealing hangover (1st class on
     Aeroflot is something that must be experienced...) and a desire to
     kill it off as soon as possible. I gathered up my bags and went
     schmoozing towards the nearest bar, opium den or cocaine parlor
     (*ahem*). I ended up in the airport duty free bar and pro station.
     I had just ordered up a round for myself when this rather swarthy
     looking sort of individual saunters up and asks me for a light.
     Wondering how he knew that I smoked (not realizing I was puffing away
     on a rather largish Turkmenistanish hand-rolled), I handed over a
     pack of "Ruth Chris' Steak House" matches. He thanked me and asked if
     I was from America.  I affirmed that thought and he immediately says
     "You must either be working the oilfields of Russia or you want to
     find the Ark!"

     Such prophecy.

     I asserted that I was doing both.

     He introduced himself as Sali (pronounced "Solly"). He was university
     educated as an interpreter and spoke English, Uzbek, Russian and
     Turkish; unfortunately for this half-deaf geologist, sometimes
     simultaneously.  Sali was a slight character, in the Peter Lorre sort
     of mold; but jovial, convivial and able to tank away the most
     improbable amounts of alcohol. I knew right then I had found a soul
     brother.  He also did not object to my cigars. A true find, indeed.

     I asked Sali if he was seeking meaningful employment, and told him
     the tale of the great Ark search, fried synapses and general
     geological HolySmokian mayhem. He said that yes, his services were
     available and also muttered something about someday being able to buy
     a computer and getting on the "Information Superhighway" (No worries,
     mates. I sent him my old laptop and 14,400 modem upon my return. The
     power conversion problem from 220 VAC to 120 VAC is his problem).

     So, I requisitioned Sali for a weeks employ (at the princely sum of
     $20 per deim!) and we were off on The Road to Mt. Ararat.  Sali could
     never afford a car of his own, even for hire, so I ended up with all
     the stick and rudder work. It worked out best that way as Sali was
     indeed a very capable tour guide, confidant and knew seemingly
     everyone from Ankara to Dogabayuazit. I told him that I was
     interested in the geology of the area (his brother in law was a
     geologist for the Turkish Government...surprise, surprise...) and the
     quest for the Ark. (He never could stop snickering every time I
     mentioned the Ark...I found out later why...).

     We left Ankara in a blinding sandstorm (he thought I was nuts for
     leaving then, he found out later how correct he had been) and made
     our way east. All the time, Sali was chattering away in either
     English or Uzbek (I made the fatal flaw of telling him I wanted to
     learn the language) about the historical significance of this
     particular area or what great person had trodden upon the soil there
     or what great booze was available over the next rise.  We continued
     overland, past the great camel salt caravans, past the great expanses
     of the "lonely", past tiny, little hamlets whose names I cannot
     possibly remember. About mid-afternoon of day two, Sali noted that
     our provisions were running low (we started with a case each of vodka
     and cognac, 3 cases of beer and a bag of what can only be described
     as the Turkish equivalent of Doritos [what we were going to do with
     all that food remains a mystery]).

     Of course, Sali came to the rescue. He knew of an oasis (where his
     sister and Brother in law [not the geologist, but a traditional]
     lived) where we could tank up both the car and ourselves. Best of
     all, it was only 25 km from Mt. Ararat.  We rolled in about 5 pm to
     the only green area in 500 km circumference. The car had not stopped
     rolling when great hoards of swart individuals descended upon us. At
     that point, I was wishing I had not left my Kalasnikov 9.72mm back in
     Alma-Ata. But, these proved to be quite friendly, to the point of
     homicide, folks. They were also relatives of Sali's.

     I do not know if it was the cases of hootch, the return of Sali, the
     infiltration of the Ugly American or combinations of the above that
     started all the ruckus; but I had a night that I shall not soon
     forget. Betwixt the dancing, eating and boozing; I was feted by some
     of the most congenial people I have ever met and witnessed to such an
     bacchanalia of back-slapping, drinking, eating and general joie-de-
     vivre.  After I broke down and broke out the cigars did the locals
     really pull out all the stops.

     So here I am. 13,500 miles form home, supposedly on a business trip
     and drinking elbow to elbow with some folks who can trace their
     lineage all the way back to Adam's father. It was under a starry sky,
     the likes of which most urbanites can only dream of and the likes of
     which I doubt again I'll ever see.  Suddenly, things got quiet...

     A matriarch came out of one of the damned-if-I'm-not-in-Albequerque
     adobe houses with a piece of wood and braided twine. She, with great
     fanfare and alcoholical approval, presents it to me and proclaims (in
     Turkish, which I understood...Thanks, Sali) me to be the keeper of
     the one, true (Goat-damn me if I lie...) anchor rope and piece of the
     "True Ark".

     The crowd was devoutly silent.

     I was profoundly vexed.

     The laughter immediately thereafter was uproarious.

     Seems that the cast and crew of this little fiesta kept themselves in
     beer and skittles quatloos by providing weary travelers with momentos
     of their "Ark Quest". Seems, of late, they've made a fortune creating
     and pawning off "Ark Bits" to unsuspecting passer-bys.

     The hangover I reaped after toasting them all night was well worth
     it...

... Noachian Deluge? Let me stop you. I've heard this all before.