or so I'd like to think.... even though it does make me wonder why I'm now suddenly being plagued by a series of bizarre moments...beginning with my short lived joy at having found a place to stay. Taks' benevolent 'mi casa es su casa' over hugs as he left for Columbia was apparently a limited instruction, as the one additional house guest (I had bedroom privileges) turned into two much to my consternation. The next day I return home to an open door, and even before my upward tilt verifying the 27 atop the door is complete, my brain has to grapple with the sight of a strange woman bearing down on me... 'You must be Apara', she smiles warmly... 'I must...' I falter weakly. It turns out to be upstairs neighbour and husband, deeply perturbed about the missing Internet access. It takes my growling stomach several minutes to comprehend that the crows in the study, spilling over into the kitchen is trying valiantly to restore said lost connection, although I am somewhat stymied by the assumption that I might have the missing answer. I still haven't quite understood why the upstairs neighbours were downstairs, but my stomach loudly insisted that it didn't really care.
Weird got weirder with several rather cryptic messages... comments left on this very blog. One of them in Cyrillic, the other longer than the post by several paragraphs, responding most inappropriately to my post on American absurdity in the news with stinging commentary on Obama's health care fiasco, with a threatening sign off.... more to come! Why would anyone want to spam a blog? What is going on??
A stray newspaper on the bus catches my eye, and I'm captivating by what I shall call a personal ad?
"Male and Ticklish? Earn £100+ p/h. Genuinely ticklish guys 18-40 for taking part in project where your ticklishness is tested. No nudity required. Cash £££."
Sadly, my junk just ain't good enough to research the matter further, and I just leave myself to much speculation on the sort of project that might entail such a request, for the remainder of my bus ride. I have to admit, I'm also wondering at the mechanics... £100 an hour? To be 'tickled' for an entire hour? or longer? or do they do it in short bursts? Siiigh. So many questions, and nary an answer in sight...
My weird week continues at my flat share, my attempts to rummage through the fridge for dinner rudely interrupted by the sight of tub upon tub of Flora. When I'd left that morning, I could have sworn, there were just 2 tubs. One of the cholesterol combating Flora and the other of the vile tasting Olive oil spread... I blink but they don't vanish. I shut the fridge. Frown. Open the fridge. The entire top shelf is neatly stacked with tubs of spread. Double layered. I did notice House guest/flat mate 1 and surprise house guest/flat mate 2 eating bread, but surely, surely, 14 tubs of Flora isn't really required to butter however lavishly a couple of dozen croissants?? Maybe they went for the tickle project instead of their training course??
Postcards from Africa
It's getting predictable. My inability to articulate the thrill of an incredible 7 days in Africa, the cradle of mankind. A vast continent, still hidden, still unknown, torn by natural calamity, human strife and all we did was meander through some of it... leaving you hungry for more. Even within our short trip, the contrast of tourism on offer, from the educational and ecologically savvy, where the land is respected along with its inhabitants, to the loutish demand to see the Big 5 (lion, rhino, buffalo, elephant and leopard), missing the whole point of a 'safari'. Journey. That's what it's all about. Not the destination, but the safari. The greatest thrill when you spot the unexpected, when you work for it, unsure of what you will find. When you're willing to spend the time waiting, even if nothing happens. Because that, is what a safari is about.
- Falling back spent as the last wildebeest make the crossing after a teasing build up of will they wont they and then, a heart pounding dash through the currents
- The thundering of your heart as the leopard stalks out of the trees and straight at you, ambling across the front of the jeep
- The surge of adrenalin that courses through your body at the flash of an elongated pale yellow, black spotted body in the tall grass
- Blood lust rising as every fibre of your being exhorts the cheetahs to greater speed to a kill
- Sun downers as inept lion cubs manage to chase away the impala egged on by raucous baboons
- Elephants converging towards your picnic lunch
- An elusive hippo taunting you with split second sightings of its twiddling ears breaking the surface of the pond
- Curious baby jackals sniffing at your jeep
- Conservation, flawless service, comfort and warmth of the camp that serves the best strawberry mousse anywhere (Kicheche Camps, Ol Pejeta - outstanding!)
- The stinging rain as you drive into a thunderstorm out in the open plain
Erm, emergency....
The throbbing pain is underlined by the strange bump in my forearm strongly suggesting a broken bone. A few discreet yet firm pokes around the area hurt but not like the hell a broken bone is supposed to imply. But then, I notice the middle bit of my middle finger has turned a very fetching blue…. Hmmm, this calls for professional intervention and a trip to the emergency room at the Lilavati makes an appearance on the agenda. We hover around a nearly empty room and I’m waved towards a chair which I decline. Apparently, it wasn’t a polite gesture but my initiation to the casualty team and the male nurse, secure in his masculinity in hot pink scrubs smiling insists the chair is for me. I grudgingly sit down to have my BP and pulse checked feeling more than just a tad foolish for rocking up to a place of serious injuries and trauma (yep, waaay to many American TV dramas) and display my slightly crooked arm furtively explaining that I hit it and it went wonky and my fingers now also turning blue. The young doctor demands explanations, oblivious to my embarrassment and I mumble something about hitting him. Naturally, young as he might be, his hearing seems to be somewhat impaired and he loudly asks, “What happened? How did it happen?”. I try to keep my sheepishness at bay and repeat myself a few decibels higher, “I was hitting him”. Shocked eyes swivel to the him in question, who hastens to add with arms flailing in defensive head protecting position, that’s all he was doing at the time. The doctor investigates and sends off the object of my wrath to pay for x-rays and instructions the nurse to inject me with something (painkiller, I assume?). Naturally, a simple jab in the arm would hardly be in keeping with the theme of the evening and she direly informs me that “It will pain a lot”, so an exposed bum is a necessity. Oddly enough, the woman is spot it – even the jab hurts as she withdraws the needle and I spend most of my time after, rubbing my butt. Monies have been deposited and we’re sent off to the x-ray department. This time it’s a skinny little radiologist that wants to know “How did it happen?". Another won’t look you in the eye mumble, “I was hitting him” elicits a chuckle from the examining doctor (what he was doing at radiology, I do not know) and the skinny chap takes note of my raging mortification and the general hilarity of the accompanying males, restricts himself to a knowing "Aaaah" and ushers me to the radiation chamber. A few minutes of being irradiated, he confirms that nothing is broken and prescribes medication and an ice pack and hands me a large envelope with fetching negatives of my ulna, radial ulna and meta carpals. Fascinating. What better way to spend a Saturday night ?!
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