The talking stone of old Kathmandu town

Twenty odd years ago I had the great misfortune to be part of the doomed Mackenzie/Alfred expedition to climb Everest's south east western north face.
Which was attempted by using only equipment made from human hair, to prove that the ancient peoples of the area with access to over seventeen tons of human hair could indeed have climbed that great beast of a rock.
Needless to say, it was a horrible experience and the bitter taste of partly cooked human flesh still lingers on my regretful taste buds.

While recovering from the ordeal in a splendid little brothel in downtown Kathmandu, I happened to bump into a strange little monk by the name of Koppin thulpa. Now this little fellow had a huge forehead, looked like a shaved monkey with an opium habit, Lovely chap for a foreigner though.

I was talking to this monk chappy one day when he casually mentioned the talking stone of old Kathmandu town, of course I was instantly intrigued and asked him to show me this miraculous stone.
Which he then promised to do on the solitary condition that I paid for him to spend an hour with the prettiest girl in the brothel.
This was a deal that suited both me and him, but one which I'm reliably informed did not please the girl as the monk was said to have some particularly nasty sexual habits.

Four days later the moon was full and the ceremony in which the stone would speak to the assembled worshipers was in full swing. As we entered the pungent incense filled air of the ancient temple, we were greeted by the sight of over forty orange robed monks chanting before the huge gilded altar containing the remarkable talking stone of old Kathmandu town.

Now to look at this stone one would think there was nothing at all special about it, it was in all truth a rather drab looking rock, which one could find anywhere littered along the twisting mountain roads of Nepal.
But something was to happen that made me revise my quickly formed opinion of this rock.
At the height of the chanting, a large bell sounded somewhere far behind us and all of a sudden there was complete silence.
Then It happened!
The stone began to give off a high pitched babble, which Koppin Thulpa assured me was a rare Nepali mountain dialect last used by the ancient high kings of Nepal in the twelfth century.
It was then announced by the high llama that the believers could now question the talking stone.
The peasants were then allowed to stream forward and ask the rock mostly mundane questions involving Yaks and other delicious livestock owned by the local people.

Koppin Thulpa urged me forward and before I knew it I was stood beside the high Llama and being urged by Koppin Thulpa to ask the stone a question.
Now I must say having been totally unprepared for the experience I was at a loss as to what question I should ask the ancient oracle, so thinking on my feet, I asked it if it knew where I could buy a good quality chunky marmalade here in Kathmandu.
The old Llama asked my question and the rock hummed out the sought for answer which roughly translated as "The stone does not know what marmalade is."

All in all it was a strange experience and not one I'm sure I would travel all the way to Nepal to witness again, but if I'm ever in Kathmandu and need someone to join a pub quiz team I would definitely consider the talking stone of old Kathmandu town.

Voodoo bitches of Port au prince

Some years ago while attempting to sail from the Ivory coast to Belize in a raft made of coconuts, to prove my theory that African coconut salesmen were the first to discover the Americas, I had the sad misfortune to be washed up on the shores of the foul and evil island known to the civilized world as Haiti.

As I and my faithful black man servant, Gombi, struggled up the beach half mad with thirst and encrusted with sea salt, we were greeted by the most horrifying sight any white man has ever encountered.

Before us, lit only by flickering torchlight and the silvery moon, were the legendary voodoo bitches of Port Au prince.
They were dancing deliriously to savage jungle drums and feverishly chanting evil curses while throwing things into a man size cauldron.
As they saw us the drums fell deathly silent and a heart piercing scream split the night air as the foul savages fell upon us and dragged us before the high priestess.
After we were stripped naked and savagely beaten they threw us into the huge pot and proceeded to throw in some rather delicious looking vegetables.

It was at this point Gombi cracked and began to scream like a young Filipino hooker during a U.S navy gang bang. I of course being British laid back and enjoyed the first decent bath I'd had since leaving Blighty four months previously.
As I wallowed there among the vegetables listening to my dark skinned companion scream for mercy, I suddenly realised it was June the twenty eighth and that by my rudimentary astronomical calculations Haiti was due to experience Its first total lunar eclipse in more than two centuries.

As the foul ceremony began to reach it's filthy savage height I jumped to my feet and reached my arms up to the waning moon and started to furiously chant my old school song "Eton uber alles"
The natives were at first bemused that their dinner had begun to chant, then as the moon slipped from view they fell to their knees in sheer terror and began to shake like the non english men they were.
I took this opportunity to jump from the pot and run naked into the nearby forest thus evading becoming dinner for the foul voodoo bitches of Port au prince.

After three weeks in the jungle naked, surviving on leaves and my own toe nails, I managed to stumble upon a Christian church and to my utter relief saw the first white faces I had seen since leaving Britain.
Never did find out what happened to poor old Gombi, but I did send his widow and her six children a brand new twenty pound note and my best wishes for the future.

Welcome to my mysterious world of the strange

Sixteen years ago on my last pygmy hunting trip down in the darkest depths of the Congo, my faithful number two on the expedition Lt Nigel Rhys Pelican looked stoically into my eyes and as his fingers slipped from my tired grip and he was dragged away from the canoe and into the dark water by that damn crocodile, I remember he shouted "It's a funny old world!" and indeed it is.

I would never have thought all those years ago, while I was still at Eton attempting to avoid being buggered by the older boys, that I would go on to achieve the remarkable feats of exploration that I did.
Who would have thought it possible to cross Peru's deadly Atacama desert on skateboards?
Who else but I, Sir Marmaduke Malaya would have attempted to swim naked from Tierra Del fuego to Antarctica?
It's this same level of deadly adventure and lack of concern for the well being of others that has, in a way led me here to my position as News direct's link to the mysterious world of the strange.

When first approached by the editor, working class I believe, I steadfastly refused his offer of employment as in my family paid work has always been seen as the privilege of the lower orders and not something to be considered by a member of one of England's foremost families.
But as my Bank manager and financial advisor both strongly pointed out, sharing my wonderful knowledge of the the world of the strange and tales of my heroic expeditions would help enormously in paying my Everest like alimony payments to my third wife Mitzi.

So it's with this love of exploration and a burning desire to search out the mysterious that I present to you my very first column for News direct.