The Ultimate Aphrodisiac

by Robert G. Barrett

  There were no soft drinks, junk food or cigarettes on the island. Everything was recycled, rubbish and pollution was minimal. They brewed their own beer and made their own rum. But you couldn’t get drunk or stoned until you were eighteen and passed Lan Laroi’s version of a Bar Mitzvah. The chiefs saw to that and nobody abused the system and everyone was happy to do their share of the work. Which wasn’t a real lot. Keleu, Ebonee and Airu took turns working in the office. The island made a lot of money out of hemp, there were no taxes or rents and everything was subsidised by the government. Now and again people were sent to the outside world to do specialised courses. But they all hated it and couldn’t get back to Lan Laroi quick enough to sit in the sun, away from the smog and crime.

  The natives hardly watched TV. Young or old they liked the ways of the past and preferred to paint, carve, sing and dance or sit around watching the stars. Everybody was up by six and twelve o’clock was considered a late night. Though when they did party, they partied hearty. Milne admitted it sounded like an idyllic lifestyle. But it only worked because Lan Laroi was a small island with barely a thousand people. It wouldn’t work in a big city.

  The bar was generally pretty low key. But Milne built it because he liked to have a cool one in the afternoon now and again and it was a bit of fun and somewhere for the natives to have a wedding or a party, should the occasion arise. Plus he could entertain any customers there who called in to do business. However, unless there was a storm, or something drastic, yachts could only stay forty-eight hours. The reason for the severe drug laws and the forty-eight hour time limit was that the chiefs and Milne didn’t want hard drugs on the island. And they didn’t want people with yachts thinking Lan Laroi was some drug paradise, where you could sail in, go mad and party all day and night while you helped yourself to the local girls. The yacht moored at the marina was the one they confiscated from Lee Britt. Milne bought the seaplane for a quick link to Konipeau and organised a defence force and put a heavy machine gun and cannon on the tugboat, because often they’d have thousands of dollars in the bank and a hundred kilograms of pot stacked in the warehouses, and there was no shortage of desperates sailing the Pacific. They ended up getting raided by Filipino pirates once, and on another occasion a yacht full of drunken Germans tried to hold them up. Milne and his defence force blew their boats out of the water, shot any survivors and left their bodies to the sharks.

  Brian listened avidly to Milne and enjoyed every word right up to the coffee and Key lime pie. As well as having a keen sense of humour, the President was a good conversationalist, thoughtful and never once came across as being didactic. A saying Brian heard immediately came to mind: A good leader is interested in finding the best way — not having his own way. That was Milne. He was sincere, thought the world of his people and the island, and although it was controversial, he’d found a better way for them. Brian could understand why the natives loved him and called him Sawi. Apart from the Godhead question, he had Brian in. The sense of bonding he felt between Milne, himself and his late father in the letter he had received from the President was even stronger now. And if Milne said the spring water and the air was the key to his uncanny youthfulness: so be it. From another viewpoint, however, Brian could see how Milne got into politics. As well as being very persuasive, he’d talk the leg off an iron pot. Brian also got the impression that for a man whose world was about to be turned upside down, the President didn’t seem unduly worried.

  ‘So that’s life on the island, Brian me old mate,’ said Milne. ‘There’s a lot of other things I want to show you. And I will. But later on.’

  Brian shook his head with admiration. ‘Sounds to me like you’ve got a bloody good thing going here, Ron. You and your people. Bad luck about that other business.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Milne. ‘It’s a pain in the arse all right.’

  ‘So when do you think the shit will start to hit the fan?’

  Milne thought for a moment. ‘I’ll know more by tomorrow. But I reckon they’ll come for the prisoners on the weekend. Get as much mileage as they can out of that for a few days. Then come back and invade. But, you never know. As well as hitting the fan, shit also happens.’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Brian absently, and finished his second cup of coffee.

  ‘Anyway. How did you like the meal?’ asked Milne.

  ‘Oh. It was sensational,’ replied Brian. ‘Who cooked it?’

  ‘My personal chef. Lengi.’ Milne winked and patted his stomach. ‘There are a few lurks and perks in being President.’

  ‘I’m not a real big eater,’ said Brian. ‘But just the cooking’d do me.’

  ‘If ever you want anything, the kitchen’s down the end of the corridor. Help yourself if Lengi’s not there.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Brian. ‘So where do you stay, Ron?’

  ‘Next door to the kitchen. The other room’s a conference room. And the girls have got a house out the back.’

  At that moment Keleu came in and picked up the empty trays. ‘Would you like something else?’ she asked Brian.

  Brian shook his head. ‘No. That was fantastic. Thanks Keleu.’

  ‘A pleasure, Takatau,’ she replied, and disappeared out the front door.

  Milne stood up and looked at his gold Rolex. ‘I’ve got a couple of things to attend to,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you do your own thing for half an hour. Then I’ll come and get you, and we’ll go for a tube.’

  Brian stood up and rubbed his stomach. ‘To tell you the truth. I might go back to my room and lie down. I’m rooted after all that.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see you in half an hour. Bring your rashy.’

  Brian returned to his room, put on a tape he’d been playing in the ghetto blaster and lay down. Johnnie Johnson started tinkling ‘Drink of Tanqueray’ and Brian relaxed, his mind drifting somewhere between home, the days’ events and wondering what Milne would do if he made advances towards his daughter. The tape cut out and Brian was still lying on the bed when there was a light knock on the door.

  ‘Are you awake?’ Milne walked in wearing his board shorts, an old yellow rashy and nose block.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Brian, rising from the bed. ‘I’ll just have a quick snakes and throw some water on my face.’ Brian returned from the bathroom and got his black rashy out of the drawer. ‘So,’ he asked, putting on an American accent, ‘what’s the story, Mr President?’

  ‘What’s mah story?’ replied Milne, imitating Clifford J. Clooney. ‘Mah story is. We. Are going surfboardering. The American people have placed their trust in me. And ah respect them for that. So surfboardering we shall go. Wax and all. And. Don’t let no one — ever — misunderestimate me.’

  Brian thought for a second. ‘Will the surfboard wax be retroactive, Mr President?’

  ‘No,’ replied Milne. ‘Because if ah do that. Only Superman will be able to pick it up.’ He nodded to the door. ‘Come on, home boy. I’ll show you my quiver.’

  Brian got a towel and followed Milne down to a door at the back of the stairs. It opened onto a concrete loading dock behind the warehouse, and a set of wooden steps that went down to a grassy yard surrounded by trees. Parked on the grass was a white Holden utility and a white Holden 4WD Jackaroo. A path through the trees lead to an adobe style house and the backyard was connected to Key Street by a driveway running between the Presidential Palace and the power station. Milne closed the door and showed Brian into the warehouse. Near the shutters were two wheelbarrows, a pile of packed bales and smaller white sacks and a stack of sealed cardboard cartons. Everything had a number stencilled on it next to a brand of two yellow L’s on a green hexagon.

  ‘We shipped out most of our stock last week,’ said Milne. ‘And I’m cutting down on production while all this rattle’s going on. But there’s 20 kilos of heads in those sacks near the shutters. If you want a smoke, grab a kilo and stick it in your room. Ask Ebonee to get you a bong or some papers.’

  ‘Do you think a kilo’ll be enough?’ asked
Brian.

  ‘I don’t know,’ shrugged President Milne. ‘If it’s not, grab another one.’

  The President walked across to the wall nearest the power station. Sticking out were several lengths of covered pipe and stacked on the pipes were four surfboards with leg ropes. A nine-foot Wizstix. A nine-foot-two Gordon and Smith. A ten-foot Jackson, and an old eight-foot McTavish Tracker. The mals were all full nose, single fin, pin tails; clear with a white trim. The Tracker was single fin and blue with a red rail. On a shelf was a pile of wax, a few other odds and ends and some snorkelling gear.

  Milne smiled and gestured to the surfboards. ‘Help yourself.’

  Brian ran a hand over a couple of boards. ‘You’ve sure kept them in good nick, Ron.’

  ‘That McTavish is the board I lobbed here with. I surfed Green Island on that one day when it was fifteen foot. Me and Allan were the only ones out.’

  ‘My father? What was he like as a surfer?’ asked Brian.

  ‘Not bad,’ smiled Milne. ‘We used to call him Mr Reverse Flick Off. It’s a wonder he never killed anybody at Bondi when it got crowded.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Brian. ‘You never had leg ropes in those days.’

  ‘Yeah. We did plenty of swimming, I can tell you. Okay. Which stick do you fancy?’

  Brian ran his eyes over the boards for a second and settled on the top one. ‘I might take this Wizstix with the three stringers. It’s pretty much like my Mick Dooley back home.’

  ‘Good choice,’ said Milne, picking up the Gordon and Smith. ‘Okay. Grab it and we’ll throw them in the ute.’

  Brian lifted the board off the rack and followed Milne down to the utility. They placed their boards in the back and secured them with rope. Milne got behind the wheel, Brian got in alongside and automatically did up his seat belt. Milne didn’t bother. The V8 ute purred into life and Milne drove down the side passage then turned right into Key Street. He sensed Brian watching him.

  ‘I like driving in Lan Laroi,’ said President Milne. ‘I haven’t got a driver’s licence, the car’s unregistered, I don’t use my seat belt and V8s are terrific when you’re pissed.’

  ‘What happens if you get pulled up by the booze bus?’ asked Brian.

  ‘This is the booze bus.’

  A few people were grouped around the supermarket, some were standing outside the bank, others would pedal past on mountain bikes. They all smiled and waved excitedly or bowed their heads as Brian and Ron drove past. Seeing Sawi and Takatau going surfing together was quite a revelation. The sealed road abruptly turned into a narrow trail that wound alongside the harbour, past the marina and the jetty.

  ‘You can use the cars if you want to,’ said Milne. ‘But I’ll get you a mountain bike to get around on like everyone else.’

  ‘That’ll do me,’ replied Brian. ‘I got one back home. I love it.’ Brian pointed as they went past the tugboat ‘What sort of guns are they?’

  ‘The big one on the back’s a Carl Gustav recoilless rifle,’ said Milne. ‘And the machine gun’s a CETME Ameli.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘They’re Spanish. Based on the old German MG42. You won’t find a better weapon. I got it for a song. And my Spanish pals tossed in a dozen DUX 51s, a few Star 30M pistols and couple of Ithaca 37Ms at the right price, too. That’s what Ohlo shot those two FBI agents with.’

  All the ordnance details went over Brian’s head. But he figured the Ithaca was what Ohlo used at the jetty. ‘Sounds like a nice little arsenal you’ve got there, Ron.’

  Milne laughed. ‘You should have seen the looks on those Filipinos and the Germans when we opened up. They lasted about two minutes.’

  Two young native boys waved to them as they drove past. Brian smiled and waved back. ‘Do many of the locals surf?’ he asked.

  Milne shook his head. ‘No. They don’t get into it. They’re like westies. I should get them some ugh boots and black T-shirts. But they’re very superstitious when it comes to the ocean and there’s parts of the island they won’t go. They do a bit of snorkelling or go swimming now and again and that’s it. But they love their mountain bikes.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ smiled Brian.

  The harbour was now obscured by trees. They came to a fork in the road and another narrow trail turned right into the jungle.

  ‘That’s the way to the other side of the island,’ said Milne. He grinned at Brian. ‘Wait till I show you what’s over there. That’s one of the reasons I invited you out here. You won’t believe it.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ replied Brian.

  A few more natives walked past, bowed their heads and smiled. Brian returned their greetings. Milne was driving very slowly and back from the trail Brian could see the houses he’d noticed flying in. They were all Mexican adobes, made from sun-dried bricks painted white. Wooden poles stuck out of the walls with baskets of flowers hanging on them, some had arches above their front doors with bells in them.

  ‘Where are these people originally from?’ he asked. ‘They look like Apache Indians.’

  ‘Close,’ said Milne. ‘There used to be almost ten thousand people on the island once. Then a whaling ship full of rats stopped here around 1750 and introduced the natives to smallpox. The population got down to a few hundred and they were nearly wiped out till the missionaries came. They cured the disease. But they destroyed all the people’s records and carvings. Couldn’t have the heathens believing in anything other than Jesus.’

  ‘Like the Spanish priests did with the Mayans?’ suggested Brian.

  ‘Yeah. Same trip,’ said Milne. He then seemed to smile at some secret joke. ‘But the local heathens finally managed to get rid of the missionaries. Anyway, I found a few things digging around the island and sent some stuff away to get analysed. And it appears they’re descendants of the Anasazi Indians. You ever heard of them?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ replied Brian. ‘They go back ages. They’re linked to the Hopi. They believe in prophecy and taking care of mother earth.’

  ‘That’s them,’ nodded Milne. ‘The locals have got a legend. One day, the island and its people will be threatened, but the great spirit, the creator, will send a silver circle to save them and mother earth from man’s destruction.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, the sooner it gets here the better,’ said Brian, ‘or there won’t be much left to save. Them or anything else.’

  ‘You’re not wrong, mate,’ agreed Milne. ‘But what would a bunch of ignorant savages know?’

  ‘Sometimes, Ron, I think they knew more than us. Even with all our technology and whatever.’

  ‘Maybe you’re half right, Brian. You never know.’ Milne pointed up to the wind generators turning in the breeze above the first headland. ‘Anyway. We’re here.’

  The trail rose up a slight bluff then went through some trees and bush before Milne stopped the car and switched off the engine. They were on a bushy dune overlooking a beach that started at the first headland and ran away to the right. The channel leading into the harbour separated it from the other headland and on either side of the entrance to the channel were reefs and sandbanks. Roughly a kilometre away was the small island they flew over earlier. Straight out in front of them was a hot left-hander; further out on the other side of the channel was a sizzling right. The waves were perfect tubes a metre to two metres high, rolling in one after the other as if they were coming out of a machine. The wind was blowing offshore, the tide was coming in and the water was crystal clear. No one was out, except for a pod of dolphins playing around over on the rights. Brian’s jaw dropped as he gave the place a double, triple blink. It was waxhead heaven.

  ‘Fuckin hell!’ said Brian. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Welcome to Windmills,’ said President Milne.

  Brian looked up at the wind generators. ‘That’s not a bad call.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it.’ Milne left the keys in the ignition and placed his gold Rolex on the bonnet. ‘Come on. Let’s get out before the crowd gets here.
’

  The boards already had enough wax on them. Brian took his and followed Milne down to the water’s edge, standing there glassy-eyed for a moment as a small shorebreak hissed up onto the snow-white sand at his feet. Milne dropped his board into the water then turned and noticed the expression on Brian’s face.

  ‘Nnnyyhh,’ said the President, ‘I’m glad you’re not looking very stoked there, Takatau me old.’

  Milne paddled out around the break with Brian behind him. Milne didn’t appear to be trying, but the President was very fit and Brian was doing his best to keep up. Halfway out Milne turned into the break; Brian paddled further out behind the line up. He glanced over and saw Milne effortlessly pick up a wave a bit over a metre, turn, then run straight up the nose and hang a lazy five through the barrel, before snapping off a cutback and a bottom turn in two fluid movements. The President could handle it.

  Brian turned around and a glassy, two-metre wall appeared. He pushed the board forward, gave two quick paddles and was on his feet. Brian dropped straight down the face, jammed a backhand turn, crouched and with the rail jammed into the wall, got himself locked in a long, steaming barrel. He cut back, jammed another bottom turn and the wave broke all over him as he trimmed the mal and worked the shoulder. The Wizstix responded to his slightest movement and sat in the wave like it was born there. The wave eventually petered out. Brian let go a loud, ‘Ohh yeah,’ and started paddling back out. Halfway out he saw Milne flying along a glassy wall, hanging ten that casually he could have been eating a sandwich. He noticed Brian, smiled, waved then turned and hung heels.