What price memories

I have often been outraged. But I can't remember the last time I actually gasped out loud in expression. US$25 for a photo. You've GOT to be fucking kidding me. My gasp makes the fat photographer lower his voice and confidentially tell me he'll wing a good deal for me. If I take all the photos, he'll give me a discount on the price. A single CD sells for US$100, but he'll do me a deal and I can have 2 CD's for US$150. You've got to be fucking kidding me. My genteel upbringing ensures it's only my eyes that voice the less than gentle disbelief at his generous offer. The photos are gorgeous. The animals wet and shiny, the smile splitting my face genuine, the sun brilliant off my hot pink bikini and the water stunning. Fuck! I really want those photos. Unfortunately, a weak moment has my eyes communicating that to the thief. Clearly, he can smell my yearning, and starts making me all sorts of silly offers. I keep a ear cocked as I scroll through the images, Michelle so utterly endearing as she perches (rather heavily) on our shoulders, smiling at the memory of her leaning over to kiss me repeatedly while that wasn't the deal, her liquid brown eyes, all melty like chocolate. I can feel Cecil's mouth sucking the lettuce from my palms as I giggle at his belly in the photo. The shock on my face at being lifted off my feet from the water by the dolphins, the obliging kiss, and the strange feeling of alienation from the mammals that I've adored as a child. Clearly, I will not be keeping one in my bathtub, as the surprising warmth of the sea lions and even the manatee make me coo and want to take them home. El Extorter offers me the choice of 10 photos for US$80, when I point out (a) the two CD's are unnecessary (just coz we did the feeding of the sea lion and manatee separate from the dolphin stunts!) and (b) I don't even want all the photos. As much as I hate bargaining and despise it in places like this even more, I make a counter offer, desperate to hold on to some memories (where I actually look as fetching {well in some photos anyway} as the other mammals!). I'm furious at this intransigence. Economically speaking, a sale at any price of strangers photos has got to be more profitable than no sale at all (great, now I sound like a Ferengi!), and womanfully quell the urge to (a) belt him across the face (b) burst into tears (c) smash his camera (d) fumble in my stash for the cash. So, how much would I have paid for those memories? Actually, if I'm honest, the memories will always stay with me. It's the collage of the pure aquas, bodies gleaming in the sun and me in the midst of it that is irresistible. I'd have been willing to pay the outrageous ransom of US$75 to take them home where they belong, but I'm no match for the slimy fat man with the camera, unconcern and jpegs. I surrender and walk away resentfully and spend the rest of the journey cursing my principles and wondering if I should've just keeled over with the funds. Siiiiigh. At least I don't have to worry about El Bandito drooling over them.......

As I sit in my favourite cafe waiting for Marnie I realise that I've never been here in the winter. The Christmas lights seem odd, but they work and the canal looks it's out of a fairy tale, the gentle flurries of snow benign in the lamplight. It shocks me a little to realise that I feel wistful, that I will truly miss this. The warm, "Hello! Its good to see you, it's been a while, have you been away?" familiarity might have set off the nostalgia, but the as I sit there waiting, I think back to the number of time vie been here, with others and by myself... And I've always enjoyed those moments, especially the solitude that encourages the gentle waft of thoughts as I sip on a warming cup of Earl Grey. Sitting here somehow always makes me reflective, but happily so, content with my own company, thoughts spilling over urging me to visit the blog and and being back after a while, brings that home rather jarringly. It's been a while since I've been on the blog but just sitting here watching the snow makes me want to string together words. The moment makes me feel positively Brontesque and not a little maudlin as I recall my, "It's my last day in London". Fact. But feels more like fiction.

Returning to Heathrow this morning left me aggrieved only as a local can be when Iris refused to play, and the easy routine of the journey home from the airport, even as the folks at Heathrow Express mercilessly extort their pounds worth. Except this is now no longer home and I feel a moment of panic... Who will I talk to, share laughter with, where will I go in Singapore? This has been home for six years. I'm going miss the inevitable silliness and raucous if utterly ridiculous evenings of our Guha Velkar foursome, the x rated confidences of the blonde and the endless discussions about everything under the sun with the Dutchman...and all that's outside of work... At work, there's or was my team, the Friday funnies, endless treats from around the world... My recent travel mates to all places exotic...when will that happen again?? My thoughts swirl like the softly falling snow and the wistfulness grows.

I hate the cold, but I will miss this beauty..... I will miss many things I think....

The lion sleeps tonight...

I can't resist him under the best of circumstances. On my last night in the country, I don't stand a bat's chance in hell as he purposefully strides towards me, the low rumble rolling through his chest as he walks all over you demanding attention, rewarding you with little love bites, artlessly but stealthily displacing our laptop from its namesake to curl into pole position for stroking. Not content to just being stroked, he negligently presses random keys making it impossible to do anything but surrender to his insistence at being the only thing you focus on. The most comfortable spot turns out to be 80% lap, a token 5% on your hand and the rest blocking the laptop from view. The rolling purr seamlessly ripples into a gentle snoring before it fades away as he tucks himself into a silky ball of fur with ears. The rise and fall of the steady breathing combined with the soft fur means I'm a prisoner, hand irresistibly drawn to the silky sheen coat, gently running my hands over him, unmindful of the heat of the awkward laptop, or my drooping eyes, unwilling to let go of these last few magic moments.....

Shark Dive

Five minutes on the boat and we're there. On top of where the sharks live. The rich aqua blue waters that hypnotise slap gently against the boat as the adrenalin starts pumping in anticipation. A few minutes later, we hit the sandy bottom and wait, wondering if the sharks can sense the anticipation in the space surrounding you. Mark crackles the bottle to give them something to be curious about and soon enough, dark shadows start circling around us, moving in tighter, getting bigger, clearer. Sharks! The more curious ones come closer, graceful, beautiful and strangely calm as they swim around you seamlessly. Just when you think the sense of exhilaration can't be beaten, one of them turns and glides straight at you and for the first time in my life, my eyes are head on with a shark's snout. If the regulator hadn't been in my mouth, that would have been open, gaping in fascination at the sight of the sleek creature heading at me before veering off. The thrill is unspeakable. In desperation for more, you then start making cooing noises in an utterly futile effort to get them to come in closer, but alas, they don't seem to respond the same way felines and canines do, and just swim past you. Then, just as you're wondering what else you can do to get them in closer, half a dozen of them turn and head in your direction... it only lasts for a few seconds before they veer off into the wide blue yonder, but the sight of that many bull sharks face to face is indescribable. Being surrounded by almost two dozen sharks ranging from 6-9 feet is addictive and you start to panic as they bore of your presence and melt into the deep. Eventually, even the noises of the bottle fail to draw their curiosity and we slowly make our way back to the surface. Khush fumbles at the safety stop, flapping his fins more than necessary, and I watch one of the younger sharks undulate curiously upwards to investigate the disruption and I pray fervently that he'll venture a nibble on his fins. No such luck andthe inquisitive fellow loses interest and heads back down, much to my chagrin. The sight of two large rays flying along the bottom was a mere ho hum and back on the boat, the grins distort our faces beyond recognition and we exult over having been not more than 5-6 feet from these magnificent creatures (well, one of them at least!). The shivering isn't just the cool air after a dive, but the residual exhilaration and and a daft grin means that your teeth chatter louder than castanets, but you're beyond caring. Sadly, the second dive doesn't even rate, and google tells me that bull sharks are the most curious and therefore potentially aggressive and likely to attack humans.... oh yeah baby! Of course, the next time I hear Khush telling the tale, he apparently dived with twenty odd sharks... a bit of haggling, and we're down to twenty, and I think we agree to round it off to fifteen. Then again, maybe there were eight or nine or a dozen. He's positive I counted the same shark twice and who's to say he's not right.

Unfortunately, there are dive schools that will feed the sharks to get them in by the dozens, and as much as I would like to be surrounded by bloody trails and feeding sharks, especially in such large numbers, it's not right to upset the natural balance. Our being there is intrusive enough and as I scour the net for more shark dives, my principles regretfully exclude the bulk of them on grounds of tampering. While the fascination with the great white continues unabated, and while my principles will allow chum in the water to attract a solitary hunter, I'm not sure the sight of a feeding frenzy by a solitary giant through the bars of a cage will be able to compare to the serenity of having them silently swish past and at you out in the open, suddenly dimmer as the sun fades behind a cloud, then clearer as the rays filter through the blue, sharing the same wide open range. Pure Magic.

P.S. - Winter in Carmen del Playa, Mexico is best for bull shark sightings - just don't encourage the dive schools that feed the sharks, unless you want the beach to be shut down when they do start feeding on unsuspecting swimmers... Reef Quest Divers @ The Blue Parrot - that's the way to go.

P.P.S. - Apparently bull sharks have more testostorone than any other animal on the planet including elephants and lions (my source happens to be Animal Planet, so depend on it!). I feel even cooler now ;-)

Car Nation?

What is an American without a car? A Mexican! Levity aside, if ever there was a nation that was run on wheels, it is America. And yet, this country wields some of the worst drivers I've ever shared a road with. Their abilities with a four wheeler sadly resemble my skills on a two wheeler, and believe me, that's not what you want to be gliding alongside on a freeway - wobbly wheels! I guess in a twisted way, while it's shocking, it's to be expected? For a people who share such an inextricably close bond with their car, in a country where without one you are akin to a prisoner (bar NYC), where gas is still cheaper than anywhere else, how is it that the vast majority (and here I do mean VAST in the volume not weight sense), are the most dreadful drivers on the planet with little or no skills at real driving? I'm not even being snide about a distinct lack of motor skills or hand eye co-ordination required to deal with a manual gear shift. Just on auto, driving and occasionally passing and well, going straight. How difficult can that be? Well, at least I know where the exasperating stereotype of the "bloody woman driver" comes from... it's the only time I've seen (and on more than one occasion) textbook blonde behaviour that involves peculiar parking and veering in a lane, thunking over every single cats eye.

So much for shock. Is it really surprising that they suck? Everyone has a car. You don't have to work for it, it is your birthright. The roads are wide, straight and very clearly marked, the cars along with their toanlly challenged, but cultured Satnav assistant practically drive themselves, so any moron can do it right? Well, any moron does. I have seen very few cars on the road that seemed to be manned by humans with a modicum of peripheral vision, acuity and the foresight to anticipate and maneuver adroitly. Yet, these very folk that drive like 4 year olds at the arcade cover thousands of miles, endlessly annoy Europeans when they do take to the roads across the pond with their stubborn clinging to the American way of driving - catch the middle lane and just stay on in, utterly oblivious to the European tradition of passing on the left and moving back to the right till you're ready to pass again.... Bloody Americans? Hey, they get more mileage than we do. It's not a passion or a convenience or even a luxury. It's just life. How many of us train for that????