I'm dubious about the Chinese look coupled with the bandage high heels. It's just as well that I'm not toting a gun today. That would have just been the height of tacky. Perhaps I've just been too strongly influenced by Singapura. The ensemble will have to do, and I meander to my destination. All very well till I ease myself down. Clearly sitting down in a short dress is a mistake, and my resemblance to a badly beaten hooker takes on infamous proportions as the bluish purple weals across my thighs gleam darkly against the cream of the dress. No amount of tugging from any angle is going to make me look like a nice girl, so I resign myself to artistically draping the table linen over me and think instead of the hapless, beaten up coke can (which ought to have been decimated (ok, so perhaps I exaggerate a tad) but for a bunch of rabidly appalling pellets that preferred to reside impotently in the barrel. Yup. Good thing the imagery was over two days.....

Happiness is....

.... sharing laughter over an exquisite meal. Just thinking about last night makes me feel all dewy eyed and satiated (a copious lunch involving potol bhaja and Ba's chicken might have something to do with it as well), ready to grant the world's every wish.

A perfect evening at Indigo, where there were just enough people to make it not creepily empty, but not too many to annoy (and not a single E for effort sighting!), attentive and thoughtful service (my shiverings were put to rest by a proffered shawl {it may have been a table cloth, but it's the thought that counts!}), and a repast fit for the gods.

The creamy opulence of the buffalo mozzarella dipped in a fascinatingly good coriander pesto (asking for it on the side was sheer redundancy) is foreplay by itself, but add plump, juicy tomatoes to that combination and it's like an orgasm in your mouth as the tomato explodes, leaving your senses lushly satisfied. The souffle which ought to have been Camembert but wasn't, was beautifully puffed, but a cheddar can only be what a cheddar is destined to be, so we shall move rapidly along to the succulent cow that wound its way to our table, all pretty and pink with the sultriest of mashed potatoes and drained the rest of my lovely Cherin Blanc. And for those weaklings that assume that is where the fantasy ended... tsk, tsk - for shame. Have these pages not taught you better?? The oft indulged in duck breast reached it's sublime potential last night. I have never in all my years been accosted by a breast so perfect that a mere mouthful make me want to bestow camels, knighthoods and my kingdom. It's velvet silkiness drapes around your mouth in the most luscious manner and the mere thought of the next morsel makes you moan. The crisp skin clings protectively to the layer of duck fat as it lovingly embraces the juicy pink flesh. Conversation ceases as tiny, inarticulate sounds accompany each bite. The wine, beans and puree unnecessary, yet taking it to another level of je ne sais quoi. I struggle with my devil/angel - wolf it down in one go, lick your chops and look around for more vs. curling your tongue around, feeling it fill your mouth before a bite releases the magic, indulging in the flavour as you masticate slowly to lengthen the pleasure. I settle for a hybrid and lay back replete, eyes fluttering shut with supreme satisfaction, pleasure and utter happiness.

Their menu claimed "The best of 10 years". Last night certainly was...

Grilled Artichokes Kaffir Lime Tomatoes Buffalo Mozzarella

Coriander Pesto

*
Cheddar Cheese Souffle

Sun Dried Tomato Kalamata Olive Crostini

*
Seared Prime Filet Mignon

Grilled Asparagus, Anchovy mashed potatoes, Three Peppercorn Sauce
*

Pan Roasted Breast of Duck

Coriander Orange Glaze Baked Turnip Puree Green Beans

Death becomes her

I’ve always been quite clear about how I want to die – spectacularly, succinctly and suddenly. A smush down to earth during a sky dive would pretty much cover it. Another fantasy did have a eaten by a pack of sharks, but while it does meet my fundamental requirements, it also necessities a greater level of pain than I anticipate during my point of departure. Driving back to Pune late on Saturday night, I realize the young man who is ferrying me with such reckless abandon, could well by positioned to deliver my requisites. I’m seriously impressed with the confidence with which the car weaves about, a mere centimeters away from other body work, like a deft seamstress wielding a needle over an intricate piece of embroidery. My hand surreptitiously sneaks to the side in search of a seat belt, and encounters some slack and draws it discreetly across my chest, left hand fumbling for the buckle. My negotiations end abruptly as the belt sags impotently in copious quantities around me. Well, given my definition, we would need to explode in a fireball, so a seat belt would really be moot. That thought comforts me considerably, and I snuggle back to enjoy the skills that would put Schumacher to shame. What impresses me even more, is that despite the raucous belting of the horn, flashing of lights and veering to the edge of intimidation as we shoot past, on the wrong side, hugging the rim of the road, sandwiched between two trucks close enough to feel their breath, he smoothly transitions out of the way of oncoming speedier traffic when on the right lane, not needing more than approaching headlights in the rear view (it might be a stretch to assume he occasionally glances at the rear view, but his actions would certainly imply it). His sheer effrontery at the toll nakas takes my breath away, and my mental cursing of his aggressive approach to the left which leaves us mired in the midst of vehicular confusion as realization sets in that the booth is closed, turns into unbridled admiration for his chutzpah as he brazenly snouts the car in front of a long suffering in queue beleaguered truckkie and we zip off to freedom. The same lad fetches me for my return journey and despite a sedate (and deeply frustrating) 80/kmph on the expressway, his artfully dodging on the ghats and in traffic and miraculous gate crashing at the toll naka, ensures that even an unnecessary detour via Worli makes it a three hour door to door journey. And I’m still pondering the coolest way to die…

Urban Legends... rock on!

Just when I thought there was no more, I discover I’m wrong. The stubby tailed cats that one sees roaming the streets of Singapore are not an indigenous species of short tailed cats, but rather, the Governments ‘humane’ way to lessening the nuisance strays might cause to local neighbourhoods. In all its wisdom, Uncle has decided that it will allocate funds for a section of its employees to round up the stray cuts in the city and chop off their tails. Pray tell why? I hear you murmur with some degree of horrified fascination. Well, allegedly this robs them of the ability to balance themselves as they leap up walls, trees, balconies, trash cans and whatnot’s potentially causing untold damage to impressionable young Singaporean minds so it is deemed prudent to rob them of that facility and leave them to loiter in a far neater manner.

My look of horror propels a young Singaporean to launch into an explanation of how this is benevolent as no cats are killed and then can live a regular life. Really? What self respecting cat would want a life where it couldn't swish it's tail in satisfaction, lash it in anger, stiffen it in trepidation and waft it as it poised to strike?! I do not have the heart to rip into the young man's pride at his government's benevolence, and privately mourn for all the cats in this fucking insane city of artifice.

P.S. - he was very proud of the crow killing arm of the govt as if his recounting the traumatic experience of having a sandwich stolen by an avaricious crow in his canteen . i will admit to shock and horror at having my first ever toasted sandwich usurped from its delicately posed position between my hand and lip by a rather large and aggressive Bengali crow, but to kill them for it? Isn't training in appropriate self defence or eating indoors a more logical response? I am aware that as a woman with murder in her heart at the mention of the word pigeon that does seem rather a lily livered stance to take, not to mention hypocritical, but yes, while crows are raucous and ravenous, they really do have much more character and less shit and shedding feathers than the vermin on wings!

Woman vs. White goods - Round 23

Apparently I am destined to have a deeply troubled and mostly tenuous relationship with all the white goods in my domain. The past few days have been a frenzy of washing as I try and catch up with the mountain of laundry that has taken up residence at my abode. This time, I seem to have snaked in on beginners luck and the machine starts up without too much drama, but then keeps me up all night with it's incessant whining.

I know better now so after a hard nights partying, merely strip naked and chuck all sodden clothes in the machine and wisely wait for the dawn. Needless to say, it is not the dawn that gets me up, but a persistent need to pee well past the witching hour and in a fit of misplaced efficiency, I hit the start button (yes, I have figured out which one that now is) and rather smugly head back to bed, ready for a drift in and out of consciousness as the beast does it's best to devour my clothing and keep me more out than in. A day (yes, I do use the term rather loosely)at the beach beckons and I haul myself out of bed and bleary eyed survey the result of turquoise Thai pants and deeply crumpled chocolate top that has the unfortunate habit of slipping off shoulders and is too deep in the back to sustain a bra. The clanking emanating from the machine does make me pause and wonder what on earth has now come lose and whether or not I should be worried or look for the manual. Instead I settle for the iron and am rather pleased with the fetching outcome of my wardrobe, complete with matching footwear and ring.

The white good has subsided and given my last rather tasty experience of pulling out an armload dry but still hot towels, I'm rather looking forward to having these out in the open before I head for the beach. Hmmmm. Perhaps I ought to have waited a tad as the rush of steam accompanies the first armload. Shit! Did I accidentally change the drying setting? My momentary alarm is assauged as I realise it's the steam and the clothes just need to be laid out for a bit before they can be put away. As I head back for my second armful, I'm struck by the painful knowledge of what caused the clanking towards the end of the wash. It's a pitiful sight, to see poor Poddy II laying there like an abused child, headphones mangled with last nights top. I reach for it only to let go in a yelp as the metal scorches my fingers. This does not bode well. I disengage the headphones and gingerly (and yes, guiltily) eye the damage caused. Hello. The white good has managed to do to Poddy II what it does to fabric. Shrink it!! How is this possible?? Most of Poddy II looks respectable enough for a prospective bride's photo, but the bottom bit housing the controls has definitely shrunk! I'm befuddled and concerned. Naturally, it was only last evening on my way to undefined revelry that the battery died, so now I have no way of knowing if Poddy II is really dead or just playing hard to get.

I get the charger from upstairs and hold my breath as I plunge it into Poddy II. Nothing. Blink. Blink. Blink. The orange light is there... could it be alive? I decide to leave it there and embark on my very late luncheon adventure at the Arts and Science museum (an entirely different matter deserving of it's own post) prelude to the beach. Late evening sees us munching on fries and a good 12 minutes trying to untangle wires that now resemble over zealously cooked Maggi noodles. It's more out of curiosity than expectation that I slot it in and stick the buds into my ears, as I grapple with the shrunken Poddy II part to start her off. The sound of the Dixie Chics in my ears makes me yelp with excitement... IT LEEEEVES!!!! I'll be damned! A full wash and dry cycle and the damn thing is still playing and not just Poddy II but those friggin' useless earphones as well. I feel the urge to bow to Apple, but restrain myself as I realise the shrunken bit of plastic really should've been heat resistant like the rest of Poddy II for me to do that, as my attempt to switch it on and off meant prising one edge off which resulted in the whole thing coming loose and the switch for the on and off falling off! Hmmmm....

Determination and a finger sticking on it works and I'm rewarded with the sounds of warbling women but clearly, any ambition Poddy II might have had of being mobile is now a distant dream. I contemplate cello tape but while that may keep the body parts of the rotating drum survivor in one piece, it doesn't let me switch it on or off, and engaging with Poddy II to execute that piece of skulduggery is liable to have a situation where the button itself falls off. Catch 22. I could either then just leave it on all the time and cello tape it into place and then just recharge like it was going out of style. Or, Poddy II is now under curfew for life... decisions, decisions... I shall leave this one for another day.

Woman - 0.62743 vs. White goods - 0.72363

The Firm

It's a very short week in the UK next week, what with Easter Monday and the Royal Wedding. A national holiday, I mean really??! Sanjeev Bhaskar was right, the Queen is Indian!! My abstract wondering about what such a lovely girl like Kate sees in Willie is met with a concerto of raised eyebrows against a 'oh c'mon' chorus. Um, no really. Why? Why would you choose to live your life in a fishbowl? They're groomed for it. Erm, it's still a choice. Everything you do, everything you say, nothing is sacred anymore when you're out in public. What kind of a life is that? Guess it must be true lou! Why else would you marry a young man with a receeding hairline and the personality of wet pasta and join a firm that seems spend the better part of its life as hamster cage lining??

Jealousy

The realisation sinks in and suddenly everything makes sense. All the other explanations I was cataloguing are irrelevant. It's the whole who's the coolest of them all that's doing this. It makes you smile, that sudden flash of insight. The word is so commonly used to define an uni dimensional emotion because it's probably the most common and definitely the most televised, but there are so many facets to it. Jealousy lives everywhere and sometimes makes the oddest appearance. Usually one hopes for a brief period before you find perspective again and you let go of it with a rueful smile. Who'd have thunk it.

Whoodunit

I'm stymied. Just earlier this evening, I blithely told a prospective buyer that it's really noisy here much to the new brokers annoyance. His less than gracious advice that I tell the landlord I want to break the lease coz he can get more money fails for the moment.

As my houseguests leave, (amazing what a lanky 15 year old can do to you on the mushiness scale as they say they'll miss you and hope you'll come with them or let them stay forever between a full on squashed body hug), I decide the week that was, has won and I'm more othan ready to surrender my decadent lifestyle of an immaculate jet setting bachelorette boss lady the coolest woman on the planet image and elected to moulder in bed instead of shaking a leg (and then some). Naturally, the decibels crank up in anticipation of the long weekend, but an unexpected and discorant whine makes me pause in my perusal of good looking men. That sounded remarkably like an aircraft. Well, at the very least like a genuine flight simulator. Did they forget to oil the bungee? The strange noise continues unabashed and I debate whether it's worth my while to get out of bed, thunk my way downstairs and investigate the matter. Broker taking revenge? The whole get out of plan makes me wonder the exercise will yield. Knowledge of a new form of entertainment at Clarke Quay? Annoyance? Aggravation? A rude call to the broker taking him up on his offer? Is this an Easter weekend thing perhaps? I content myself with muttering evil things about the new broker and thinking deeply voodoo thoughts. The noise stops. I gracefully refrain from gloating but just as i get used to the discordant notes of the band downstairs, it starts up again like an agitated jet engine trying to impress a new date. WTF?!

A wee little voice in the distant reaches of my brain tries to make itself noticed.... 'washing machine' it whispers. Oh. Right. I did hit a few buttons on that creature did I not? The first time I've heard it in action and apparently it's an A380 cleverly in disguise as a maudlin white good. Clearly, tossing in an armload of towels at 11 pm isn't the right strategy when your bed is directly above the said implement of domesticity, particularly in a studio flat with no doors apart from the one barring random strangers that may meander in. You live and you learn. Or not as the case may be. Uh oh, sounds like its ready for take off...... tighten seat belts and hope that it does not explode. Hmmmm, it really is just like flying on the upper deck!

You know it's been a REALLY bad week when you're too tired to go dancing or have sex :(

Chatus Interruptus

I'm still chortling over my cleverness as Darius and I zing witticisms and appalling unintended puns about the dead and how many bar codes to a dead body and whether one should program in how many visitors to the site (of course no pun intended!!). How cool is to be writing software for a funeral home? Our pithy exchange blips when msn offers up a "you and Darius both have web cams so you can see each other". Blind panic propels my hand over my boobs even as I contemplate the various states of undress Darius has already seen me in, while my blood boils at this gross invasion of privacy! Since when does a woman have to be defensive about her choice of non attire when in bed exchanging silliness with an old buddy? And what is this absurd desire to keep wanting to see what's on the other end?? Have we lost complete sight of civilisation??!! How did this come to pass? (naturally, no pun intended this time either). I crack myself up... at least don't have to wonder about whoodunit.

AWAS

If sun burnt boobs are a sign of a good weekend, then I must have had a spectacular one! Emerald green water, bright blue sky, lush palm fringed sand, margaritas, martini biancos, jenga, taboo, multi-lingual name, place, animal, thing, scones with cream and jam, brownies, frisbee in the water, basketball, boogie boards, feeding the fish in guise of catching them, mosquito nets, trashy magazines, 50 spf sunblock, snorkeling, underage blond boys, pretend F1 speed boat rides.... it's so hard to do nothing! Sibu Island in Malaysia is the perfect place to practice this fine art....

Lunch

Unlike Europe, client entertainment is de rigeur this part of the world, and I find myself off to a client lunch after a quick visit to their offices, which overlook the Bird’s Nest stadium and Water Cube at the Olympic Village. Naturally, the block of buildings, spearheaded by the tall office building before slanting to three residential towers and a up flip to a hotel is meant to resemble a dragon. As we head towards lunch, it becomes abundantly clear that (a) the philosophy imbued in the masses that ride the subway is a mere cultural expression of the thou shalt not wait ethos and (b) the Chinese do not give a flying flip about lift manufacturers guidelines on the number of people allowed. We get into a lift that is already filled to capacity and make three further stops along the way, as a general shuffle of angling bodies slightly yields room for another seven people (admittedly tiny, but hey!) and you wonder if any of these lifts will actually belch out an overload (something I’ve seen happen with great abandonment in Singapore). Andy decides we should experience cuisine from his hometown which lies in Wuhan province and lunch turns out to be an experience completely different to anything else ‘Chinese’ I’ve eaten in all these years. An unexpected and most surprising offering turns out to be a decadently luxurious soup that’s oddly comforting. An unusual mix between silky, lush pork fat imbibed broth and the stolid comfort of starchy lotus root (with trailing, sticky strands that brought back to mind a graphically pornographic description someone once made). How they eat the way they do and go back to work (thankfully, as a race, the Chinese are diverse and share the skinny bitches with regular people) . Delicious fish in gravy (enough to serve 6), greens from the province gently steamed to retain crunch, rice, a rather odd concoction of spring onion type greens and a surprisingly bland meat product, the lush soup, duck with some kind of winter melon/squash that merrily cooked on a flame as we went through the rest of the meal. Nothing like a business lunch to get the eyelids drooping…. Apart from the culinary, I also discover that while China does have amendments to its 1 Child Policy, it’s not easy for couples to have families. Kat is moving to Shenzen to work before giving birth to her baby in Hong Kong not because as I had naively assumed, that she has family there, but because if she were to stay in Beijing and have her second baby, they would be fined ¥ 300,000 for breaking the one child policy! However, it is apparently acceptable, to go off and have your baby elsewhere and then come back to China. So apart from the nuisance value, you could spend a third of the fine living elsewhere and then come home with a jubilant defiance of the government’s policy. Couples who are single offspring themselves have the right to a second baby, but only if there is a five year gap between the children and there might even be some age restrictions (apart from the obvious of the unlikelihood of having a second if you’re first only deigns to show up when you’re 40!). It feels so bizarre not to have the right to choose something as fundamental as how many babies you will or won’t have (and to think I’d gone into rant mode without this dazzling piece of knowledge!) and even if you are ‘eligible’, to have the Government stipulate when! Like India, the baseline is formidable so while it’s kinda understandable. This place is crazy, and I love it!

Forbidden City

After that rant out of nowhere my seemingly frayed nerve were calmed by a verrrry soothing massage and today was the adventure of the subway (they definitely have more junta than we do!!) which turned out to be very easy to negotiate (apart from dealing with the seething masses that just keep pouring into the compartment despite being filled to capacity, utterly oblivious to those wanting to get off the train. I get out at Tiananmen Square (East) and am a tad disappointed at how benign it looks. A bit silly to expect student protesters being mowed down by tanks, but aside from being massive (but then, Beijing is a MASSIVE city), there’s little to commend itself to the tourist. The Forbidden City on the other hand…. It takes me quite a while to realize, that it’s not free entrance, but rather I’m only crossing the gates preceding the Forbidden City from Tiananmen Square. It’s full of street vendors hawking their wares and I get snared by a young girl, an artist who insists she wants foreigners to see her work and won’t let me go. I have no need or desire for yet another Chinese painting, but sap that I am, am unable to walk away from the exhibition without a plastic bag holding one of her paintings. She’s from the Hunan province (and prefers it there) and is in Beijing for a month for this exhibition and desperately wants to show other people in other parts of the world her works. The walls remind me of offerings outside the Met in NY and Chinatown there. All originals – so much talent, but so few that make it really big. Like everything else, art is an industry as well. I loiter around the front courtyards taking in the crowds and the festive ambiance breaking into hapless giggles at the sight of combat wear, gun toting toy soldiers crawling on their forearms and knees with a Chinese flag merrily stashed between their weapon arm. The dolls are about 8-10 inches long, and advance in a not very stealthy but entirely convincing crawl brandishing their weapons, ready to take down any dissident tourist. I’m spellbound and the lady tries her best to sell me a regiment. I’m severely tempted, but six years in London and random Germanic associations make me question the wisdom of the toy even as I catalogue nieces /nephews and godchildren (and some contemporaries) to pander to. Sadly, my cash position is perilous and I decide to pay for the entrance ticket instead. My progress is poor and this time, I’m captivated by the sight of little plastic bags, well and truly sealed that seemed to have little fishies in them. My investigative peer reveals that they are not ornamental plastic fish as I thought, but real live ones, seemingly hermetically sealed with some dots of stuff in these plastic pouches with different coloured liquid. How strange. Apparently, these are fighter fish, and one is the best number to keep the harmony. Wonder what mating season looks like! Luckily, no other stall distracts me and I manage to acquire entry through the gates into what was once the Imperial capital of the Qing and Ming dynasties. A city within a city. I feel like I’ve landed on the sets of Shanghai Noon and almost expect to have Jackie Chan leaping out with great enthusiasm. Instead, I try a few fancy maneuvers so as not to trample on any stray children in my line of trajectory. There is always something magical about walking on the same roads and past the same things that a civilization did hundreds of years ago and this is no different. Trying to imagine what life would have been like in the royal confines. The Imperial gardens are ornamental and seem somehow small compared to what one expects of royalty. The consorts chambers have furniture displayed and for some reason this attracts all the shutterbugs. The streets are punctured by large copper vats that were used to firefight – a rather common phenomenon given how carefully organised this was, but still not good enough to prevent destruction through fire in the days of yore. It’s another beautiful day, and the sun glitters on the rooftops, that were yellow when I came in, but now gleam like they are plated with gold leaf, reflecting the sunlight like water. Time goes by quicker than expected (my earlier loitering could have some impact on this), and I find myself rushing back down the other side, before realizing that I’d manage to lose myself in the city and re-orienting myself in the right direction. Team dinner that can’t wait, so I had to forgo the not so little swarming, belly crawling army. Dinner is Sichuan and spicy and while they courteously offer me the menu, I abdicate (but not before I do a quick reconnaissance of the pictures and my fancy is piqued by cold donkey meat and my heart melts at the sight of seahorses in their miniature perfection on the menu) and only express my ethical aversion to anything shark fin related. Duly noted, and the food comes flying in…. the first dish to arrive is what looks like rolled green leaves with a peanutty dipping sauce. It’s crunchy, and in itself, not very flavourful, but with the sauce, turns into a crisp, refreshing bite. Soon, the table is laden - original Kung Pao chicken, which is completely different, spicy but with a compellingly fragrant flavor, even spicier tofu (I fail to understand why no one else makes tofu like this – it’s silky, delicate and most pleasing to the palate unlike your average tofu which I will avoid like the plague) that takes all of my skills to confine myself to the tofu without being annihilated by the deadly sauce. Then, the waitress brings a large glass bowl with brown liquid. I’m thinking this looks like rather a bland stock and then to my shock, she ladles in some strips of raw meat and it bubbles ferociously! That is a bowl of hot oil! The meat is dipped in taken out and then rest of the vegetables. But contrary to my expectations, and unlike a fondue, they then put everything back in that huge bowl of oil, which along with your edibles has a bunch of hot stones that keep the dish hot…. Its Chinese name is a far more elegant rendition of flowing river with boiling beef. I’m a tad appalled at having to fish my food out of a vat of oil, but gamely do so and it’s absolutely delicious! The beef, mushroom and sundry other veggies are done perfectly and bursting with flavor. While I’m distracted by this, more food has arrived at the table, rice, chicken broth soup with unnamed bits of what I would guess to be interiors of some animal (specked and honeycombed like the inside of an intestine methinks) that are supple and deliciously crunchy and a sweet sago something or the other soupy endeavour (which I would be more than happy to sacrifice). As we forage through our meal, the ladle brings up more stones than meat and veg and I’m laughingly appalled once again to be eating straight out of the boiling oil. “It’s just like French Fries”, Rayman consoles me, “Just manual draining”. Technically speaking, the boy is right, but now I start to wonder what they do with the oil once we’re through with it and a lively debate ensues. One presumes that an establishment of this magnitude tosses it but I insist that this is what has been used to cook the rest of our meal. Yep, I am a very popular boss (and this is before I pick up the tab!)

Welcome to China

There are clearly more people in China than in India and I seem to be spending the day with most of them at the Summer Palace in Beijing. I can only chuckle under my breath as the masses throng all around, and the next time a Chinese woman tells me it’s going to be very crowded, I’m won’t be so blasé about it. I also now understand why she sent the car for me at 7 am this morning…. My resentment now somewhat abated. When we’d reached the Great Wall at Mutianyu, we sailed into the parking lot and I huffed and puffed my way to the cable cars, wisely assessing the height of the mountain ahead of me and cannily making the judgment call that I came here to go on the wall, and not try and kill myself merely attempting to get to it. The cable car ride is spectacular and offers me a birds eye view of the crazy wall, yet doesn’t prepare me for what I see when I go skip off. Not a great fan of man made items, watching this massive wall snake it’s way up and down the hills is quite surreal. Having the sun shine brightly taking the chill away makes it magnificent. This section has been restored (courtesy Henkel), and therefore is no longer the real thing, but my God, if it doesn’t make you inhale a deep breath as you long one way and another and you just see it reach endlessly. Wikipedia told me this was the less crowded section of the wall as the climb was steeper. Sadly, no one else seems to have read that as I struggled to find a quiet spot for a global moment. I had a client call at 10 am, and scampered down to the least crowded spot I found, making myself cozy in the shade of the wall, I contemplate being an Indian on the Great Wall, nibbling on a delectably flaky croissant, dialing into Singapore for a call with an Aussie. Call me a nerd, but just how cool is that?? I wonder if it scrambled the satellites of the CIA, NCIS, KGB, RSVP, TWBA, AIG and Red Army. I did contemplate walking the stretch all the way down to the next set of cable cars, but the crowds are swelling – these Chinese are hardy. They’ve got their young, their decrepit, and even their breastfeeding all on that wall, wheezing, huffing and puffing ,but all on the ruddy wall. I give up the battle and gasp my way back up to whence I came for an easier ride down the mountain. I was told it would be a ‘phaa’ experience, but with the qualification that since I wasn’t paying for the trip I’d love it…. not sure how true that is, but it really is quite an incredible sight and to think of it that many dynasties ago, wrapping itself to the defense of the realm is quite spectacular. Today was the perfect day, but oddly, I wish I was here in the snow. Somehow, that would have been more poignant. To think of all those souls that might have crossed it when they had to, and not when the snacks were up for grabs. It would have also been a more intense experience with hardly any people on it as you struggle with nature despite man’s insistence. Still, the sun winking of the far set of cable cars is a funky sight and I’m glad of the early start (despite feeling like stale toast), as the queue to the parking lot snakes several miles down as we leave for the Summer Palace. The souvenir sellers are at it full tilt (including very vociferous enforcement of a no photographing the dromedary policy! Pity- said creature was really adorable. Not sure what it is about them, but I find camels, especially the furry double humped varieties irresistible). Naturally, we’re unable to get into the parking lot of the Summer Palace, and just stop the car for me to get to the entrance by feet. The driver insists on accompanying me and as he points to the back of the ticket illustrating where he’ll pick me up, I being to comprehend. However, I’m hungry and decide to investigate the wares on the street side. My confusion clears as I realize the McDonald’s umbrellas are mere brand stamps and have nothing to do with the funky coloured ices and fruits on offer. I shy away from the sugar, and instead focus my energies on a man grilling meat on long skewers. They smell heavenly and I decide not to ask what animal it might be and just point hungrily. 10 RMB later, and a sprinkle of chili powder leaves me brandishing two speared sticks. I bite into it and gasp both with the heat and the juiciness. It’s gorgeous! I’m lined up against a railing with a bunch of other locals intently gnawing on our sticks. They very blithely chuck their remains on to the grass on the other side, and while I balk at that, I decide to adhere to the when in Rome model and nonchalantly toss mine over the side as well. My adventures in the summer palace are confined as a large part is under renovation, and well, I’m not that keen on palaces, but gamely meander along, stopping to admire the garden of virtue and harmony (no, I do not know why virtue should be harmonious) and the largest single rock for an ornamental garden before stumbling onto the lake and I do mean quite literally stumble as I get washed away with the massive crowds of people that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. I’m an Indian. I live in Bombay. Six million commuters use the local trains. I’ve been at Churchgate during rush hour. Nothing prepares me for this…. Yep. They do have more people than we do. All of them desiring to move to the next point at the same time without the patience to wait for anyone else. I can’t remember if I’ve ever taken photos of crowds before, just because I was taken aback by the sight of one, but I have now. It’s mayhem, and I feel claustrophobic. They look happy, enjoying their holiday. Suddenly, Bombay feels like a big, ole spacious city and the couples on Marine Drive are lucky to have such a respectable distance between them. The lake is littered with little boats, and I gingerly step across merry Chinese negotiating my speed, trajectory and the lake right next to me. The water bounces back the bright light, glittering wickedly like malignant silver and the pagoda and palace are a pale shadowy silhouette in the distance, unable to compete. The bridge to the island is spiked with bodies crossing over, even as large bird like kites soar overhead. It’s happy, free and insane. I can’t help but smile the entire walk down doing my best to avoid happy snappers, wheelchairs and running babies with icky fingers. I’m one of a few foreigners, but we’re such a negligible number, we might as well have been Chinese. I have no idea why everyone would want to head to the same place on their holiday, to be cheek and jowl with your fellow countrymen, but for some reason, they not only do, they seem to have a blast doing it. So Happy Qingming Jie Beijing.

Too much nice weekend

3 bottles of wine, pork ribs, dim sums, mousse cakes, pate and cheese with crackers, cackling women, plans, frustrations, silliness in abundance. A too much nice Friday night that segues into a gourmet three course lunch, Darjeeling tea, impeccable service (53 @ 53 Armenian St) which manages to last long enough to blend into frozen margaritas at Boat Quay as a set up for a lesson in cricket for the American. We wend our way down to Robertson Quay where the Indians have laid siege to Boomerang. War paint and cries of “India Jeetega!” rend the air and the mood is more than set as the alcohol keeps flowing. The mood drops to a shocked silence as we’re 31 for 2, and all the American’s efforts to cheer us and tell us the rest of the team are there to get more ‘points’ leave us unimpressed. Slowly steadily, our collective hope and will seem to get the Indian batting order to a semblance of a battle to be had, and the cosmic realignment is now back in balance. I have to choose between friends in apparent need and a country in need and stay rooted to my seat despite the hazing in the background (an entirely unfulfilling debate about how old orange shirt was – and if you saw him, you’d be wondering why anyone of any age would (a) wear that colour (b) pick a size that emphasises love handles and prosperous paunch (c) buy a t-shirt that’s so long (d) have the collar standing up). During the match, I’m informed that while I’m not attracting any male attention compared to resident slut with suBtlety, I’ve caught the eye of there women. A visit the ladies brings on male attention (I’m Mark, this is Mike and someone else and we own the place…. Yay?), and a lost wicket and I’m promise not to go ever again. The countdown begins and the tension is palpable. Die hards leave so as not to jinx the team, and I haven’t paced with this much stress since Federer lost the last Wimbledon to Nadal. 1983 was the last time I seriously followed the game and that was the last time we’d watched. Dhoni has his head down and keeps plugging away to our yelled at encouragement. “Hum hoongey kaaamiiiiyaaaab” fills the bar along with some rather risky, “Lanka ko jala!”. Even some ruder sentiments of “chut bhi liye aur maza bhi nahi aaya”. Nails get bitten, high fives and chest thumps shared as do fervent hugs, funky dance steps, and general shouts of Sachin and India fill the air. You can cut the atmosphere with a knife and no one’s moving from their spot – any spectator knows that would just bring bad karma. Goldilocks still has a two more overs, but then we mutter to keep it steady and calm, and then it’s so doable. Within our grasp, you can feel the thundering of collective hearts as Dhoni pulls back and yanks it, the cries of panic mingled jubilation as we watch it soar, and keep soaring as it crosses the boundary and the world explodes into craziness. Screaming bodies hurl into each other hugging, exulting, arms pumped up in victory, testosterone fills the air as everyone goes beserk. Apparently, it’s been 28 years since we last one. 28 fucking years. There are people watching with us who weren’t even born when that happened! We’ve won!! INDIA JEET GAYA! Frantic phone calls to share the joy, more group hugs, high fives and victory dances. It’s time to celebrate and we take the party to Clarke Quay and the only place any self respecting Indian can go – to the Rupee Room where Bollywood awaits. Of course it waits a little longer as we ceetee and cheer our way through the presentations, the cacophony making Aashish text me saying you’re phone called mine (D-uh!). The Rupee Room doesn’t care if you’re in shorts and chappals. India won, we can wear anything today, and we show the white boys how it’s done. A few drinks and much sweat later, the club is heaving, so we leave and join the street party instead, full on with a bunch of boys absent for our last win as they do a conga line around the fountain interspersed with respect to Sachin, Dhoni and the incessant refrain of India Jeet Gaya amidst ceetes, screams, vuvus and dhols. The party spills on to the bridge and I’m hauled up to dance along the barriers with the rest of the crazy desis. Eventually, the poor dhol player despite a virtual red bull intravenous drip eventually loses his voice and arm completely and it’s time to meander home victorious. The conquering army still unwilling to let go, but those whose second world cup this is, thinking 5 am is about time to leave especially when flying out the same day… Still, the smug smile stays while I’m still in bed, and splits into a full on grin as I can hear India Jeet Gaya waft up through my window. Damn Straight - we ARE the Champions!! Weeeee are the Champions….. weee ARE the CHAMPIONS!! Of the WORLD :D:D:D

Five incomplete posts on Africa, chaos at work, growling stomach, menopausal client, deadline 1 tonight and 2 tomorrow :(. This is NOT going well.....

Durian'd!

As you shall sow, so you shall reap.... Fundamentally sound as a concept you would think. But that was before I met with the legend on the Far East, the fabled and much reviled Durian. As someone called it, the 'Mother of Jack fruit', it's actually banned in public places. So you can buy durian, but damned if you're allowed to used the public transport system to get it home.... Why? you ask, all bright eyed innocence. Because dearly beloved, it REEKS. Having had a childhood fraught with the insidious scent of jack fruit in your milk (I believe this is why cling wrap was invented!), your rice, your meat, anything else unfortunate to share the fridge with peeled jack fruit, I have a sturdier disposition to durian than several others I know. While I have been known to be sensitive to scents, I haven't yet keeled over at the waft of durian. Last night, I found myself watching a cookery show focused on all things sugar. While this would normally be considered an aberration, I was intrigued by the French and Chinese/Aussie combination. One making exotic macaroons of the likes of pineapple and avocado, while the other flaunted Onde Onde (traditional Malay sweets that have a molten palm sugar heart surrounded by coloured dough) with durian. Bright colours fit for a dolls tea party. Naturally, sweeties were exchanged and oohed and aahed upon by both chefs, till the Frenchman bravely tried the durian onde onde (despite health warnings from charming Chinese/Oz chef) and while he manfully tried not to gag or spew it out, he did have to turn his back to the camera. Sadly, someone should have warned him that merely removing the offending taste from your both won't rid you of it, and his face was a work of art as he dealt with the aftermath in the most subtly horrified way possible. The verdict - it's like eating a dead onion. Hmmmmmmm. Not sure why anyone would have sampled a dead onion even out of scientific curiosity, but he is French! As is the wont of life, I find myself at a client lunch this afternoon, where a traditionally sumptuous meal is called to a close with durian pudding. My colleague has thoughtfully ordered a mango substitute dessert for the other weakling in my office (who's nostrils are already in distress from the aroma at the next table, and this was a very faint fragrance of durian gracing the environs around us). I tell them about my last nights viewing and there is some debate about dead onions. But, faint hearted I am not, so I reach for the proffered sample of the durian dessert (or disaster as some might call it) and gamely spoon a mouthful in..... nanoseconds is all it takes for the light bulb popping, firework endorsing acceptance of the so that's what he meant by dead onion taste, as it subtly offends my palate. My relationship with onions has been tenuous at best and to have that flavour linger in your mouth after a banquet is indescribable. Swigs of jasmine tea and hefty gulps of soupy, mango, sago custardy concoction bring relief and also explain why I feel faintly sick after the meal. Why a fruit that looks and smells like jack fruit, with slimy, pulpy texture of a squashed banana would want to taste like a dead onion is beyond me. Why people in this part of the world like it so much or why they would possibly want the taste of a sickly onion to be there lasting memory of a resplendent meal is well beyond my minuscule faculties. These Asians are crazy!!!

Postcards from Africa - Decadence

Decadence, thy name is Champagne breakfast in the Mara. Floating aimfully across the plains only occasionally scaring off the odd creature with a burst of flame driven hot air (seems the animal kingdom has declared this Sunday a day of rest and all but vanished off the plains!), it's easy to forget that the continent is still "third world". A hard bump and tilt and we're ejected from our wicker basket to be transported balloon et al for our already paid for champagne breakfast. Unimpressed, our disgruntled rumblings are reflective of a balloon ride that promised much and delivered nothing (and having super balloon guide/captain exclaim he'd never seen the plain this empty did not help matters!). We alight, graciously accept champagne flutes and amble over to the table and stop dead. The table is laden with artistically placed baskets and trays dripping with fruit, breads, cheese and crackers, jams and marmalade, glasses of cereal topped with yogurt and strawberries and a gorgeous centrepiece. We gape and turn our heads to the buffet on the side. What might that augur?? Bain maries offering sausages, bacon, fried potatoes and baked beans as a smiling chef surrounded by cheese, mushrooms, chopped tomatoes, peppers and onions asks your pleasure as he whips eggs into submission. Giggling at this debauchery seems called for and we can't stop. That is before I realise chef number two is asking me if I'd like a crepe or perhaps a waffle? Sitting at the table, in the middle of nowhere (as our host put it, the best Waffle House in the middle of nowhere), you forget where you are. It's surreal and in the near distance, a flock of vultures congregate. We turn protective of our breakfast before realising its a zebra carcass that luring them. They're joined by a tentative hyena, but promptly gang up to send him scurrying off tail between legs. What else is a girl to do except head back to the heat and accept a freshly made crepe? We feed like the vultures (who now outnumber us 4:1), with less jostling and flapping of wings, and do a fair take on there ungainly gait as we move to find vantage positions for photos. Them and us. Both enjoying a meal in the bush. Nature in perfect harmony. Satiated. Luxuriant. Indulgent. Fat. There's little to choose between us and the lions lolling on the Mara.

Postcards from Africa - Family Ties

Watching the army wend it's way across the river is always fascinating, but seldom do you see a soldier headed against the march. A double take and quick alert later, it's a fact. There is a zebra battling the river, swimming back to where he came from. The only creature making a return crossing. We question Stripey's IQ even as we admire his determination and speculate whether he's merely directionally challenged like all males. Apparently, having reached the other side, he realises part of his family is still on the other bank (a male zebra will usually have 2-3 females and babies in his family), and has gone to seek and retrieve. Sure enough, he lunges out of the water, and canters around, his braying carrying over the thrum of hooves, rending your heart as he looks for his missing family. He finds one female and they nuzzle for a few moments, as we try not to cry at the touching reunion before heading off, braying loudly in search of the rest. Who'd have thunk it. Post coital wallow is rudely interrupted by the bravery and determination of one zebra to find his family leaves us speechless and teary eyed as we send telepathic and whispered encouragement and hope towards finding is mate.

Postcards from Africa - The Crossing

We are determined, ready to sit it out, despite our drivers desire to move onto something more exciting. The numbers well, as the silly gnus trail each other, shuffling towards the banks of the river. As far as you can range your eyes, nervously pacing wildebeest under a halo of dust. The sheer volume makes you shake your head in wonder. They edge closer, as do you, quite unaware, before pressing back, but there are too many, and the newcomers move the shifting mass closer to the edge. A few braver ones venture down a trail, but the croc makes a false move and scares them off. Our driver informs us huffily that the gnus are silly and have been known to move forward and shy away half a dozen times a day before going home on the wrong side of the bank. Did I mention we are determined? Another couple of titillating advances, and suddenly, there's a couple of them in the water. As your breath catches wondering if the rest will follow, the numbers swell and suddenly there's a train of wildebeest ploughing through the water, churning it as more and more leap in frantically, full on "chapaaaang!" like they were being chased by all the lions of the Mara. The other slope starts getting slick as more and more clamber up the bank and your heart stops in its mouth as one of the gnus falter and flail before dropping to its knees... you can almost hear the humans on the bank will it to get up and take those few steps and the collective sigh of jubilation when he finally does. Your heart a jackhammer, caught up in the urgency of the crossing as the waters froth and a croc disappears, watching the army plough its way thought. Gradually, the trail thins and the last few cross over, and in a rush our breaths leave our bodies as we collapse back in the jeep, utterly spent, unable to speak or move. The consensus - more exhilarating than sex and we debate a suitable technique that might make our males have the same impact on us. P.S. - clearly, stupidity survives in greater numbers.

Postcards from Africa - The Elusive Fifth

The most elusive of the Big Five, a solitary hunger camouflaged in the branches. Any sighting is fortuitous and our first attempt leaves us with more bird photos than anticipated. Rumour of a sighting has us tearing into a thicket with several other jeeps and we snuggle our way in. A muted shout. Someones spotted a tail, and suddenly, we do to. A flick is enough to send your heart racing as you fumble with camera. A leopard! We're actually looking at a leopard! A few great shots as she moves around as the excitement builds, and then suddenly, without any warning, she ambles out of the thicket into full view. My jaw drops along with my camera. Leopards are shy. They avoid human contact at all costs. Well, clearly someone forgot to tell her, as she calmly strolled right between the jeeps to head to the thicket of trees on the other side. The adrenalin has shot off the scales and turned my brain to mush as I stand gaping, barely remembering to aim and shoot. Needless to say, blurry is a good result. We follow her to her next stop and just the sight of her back turned to us in disdain keeps the skin tingling. Hakuna Mata!! We're so overcome by this encounter that we're almost ready to forgive the guides lack of desire to teach us anything or point out anything but the big five. Almost, but then I have to go and ask, "What do they usual eat?". Now back at Kicheche, that would have led to a detailed discussion of not just the sort of prey, but the whys and hows and we'd have all been that much wiser. Instead, David the guide looks at me in confusion and says, "Meat". No shit Sherlock! I make like a fish to refrain from any more pithy remarks while my brain contemplates whether it's worth my while to elaborate on the question... clearly not. He may have found us a leopard, but I'm no more kindly disposed to him than before.

Postcards from Africa - Cerval sighting

"I saw something!" squeaks the Hungarian. Echoes of "what", "where" fill the jeep. "There!". Overactive imaginations conjure up a leopard. The driver dismisses us pointing to the tall grass free of any creatures. We persist, and make him circle around ignoring his boredom. Nothing. Safari. Journey not destination, so we make another pass and a lush flash of yellow spotted with black streaks past us, disappearing into the tall grass. A cerval cat!! Seen in our animal book, but not on our list and yet there it was, spotted and hunted down by amateurs, the thrill all the sweeter for it's unexpectedness and almost ephemeral sighting. We are bwana! While it was mostly a blur, you could still feel the plump lushness of it's shiny coat, feel a sense of sleek feline superiority. It's smaller than all the other predators in the Mara, a pale golden colour with black spots, and pointy ears. Usually not on anyone's list of must see sightings, but damn! what a thrill! We are also severely chuffed at having been the ones to spot it instead of the guide, but that's what three nights in a superlative camp will do to you. At Kicheche, Laikipai, the guides would see blurs miles away while we'd be doing our chorus of, "Where? Where?" and of course, he'd do that while he's driving the jeep through bumpy terrain. Incredible! Starting our safari at Laikipia where the animals are less plentiful, the environment harsher, the camp and its guides truly knowledgeable and focused on conservation was a blessing. While the Mara is lush and rewarding in terms of sighting, it's commercial and apparently less concerned with teaching visitors anything about the land or its inhabitants and success is measured by brief sightings of the Big Five, like a tourist with the ubiquitous checklist - been there, done that. The Kicheche Camps are extraordinary. Both in terms of hospitality and service as well as what they know about the land and it's animals and their educational but non intrusive approach to the safari. If you have any interest in wildlife and nature, look for the Kicheche lot.

Postcards from Africa - Moussealicious

No better way to end a day of unquenchable excitement with a candle lit dinner. The menu escapes me, but dessert, makes my heart flutter. I hide my first disparaging glance at the pale pink mousse set down in front of me and politely tip a minuscule portion of the accompanying strawberry yogurt before spooning it gingerly into my mouth. The pinkness lingers on my tongue for a fraction of a second before zinging across my palate like a frisky butterfly. It's light, refreshing and bursting with flavour. I'll be damned. This is without a doubt, the best strawberry mousse I've ever laid lips on, anywhere in the world. Hell, it's the best fruit mousse I've ever encountered anywhere in the world. Sighs of pleasure whisper around the spoon as I revel in it's lusciousness, sending up a brief prayer of thanks to the Gods of Chocolate that ensure the Magyar leaves hers untouched, and delicately demolish hers as well before the rest of table starts looking around for seconds. Contentment spires through me as my tongue ensures not a trace is left and I refrain from smacking my lips like the less than immaculate lions at lunch. This IS the life.

Postcards from Africa - The brothers Cheetah

Last night, I finally finished my cover page for the Africa photos. Still a while before I'm able to post them on the site (and this isn't even taking into account the doctors schedule), and the memories come flooding back, and I realised what I'd written in November was a mere prelude.. It's nearly impossible to find a cheetah in the tall, yellow grass of the Laikipia plateau and as I struggle with the first of the brothers, a second artistically places itself under a bare tree, casting a classic Egyptian cat pose. He's spectacular and totally oblivious to anything but his quarry. I abandon search of the others, and focus on gorgeous, apparently surveying the landscape. Without warning, he rises, making the breath catch in your throat, as his shoulder blades stand out in relief, dipping and rising as he stalks his prey. It's like being inside the Nat Geo channel on TV, as the stalk morphs into a sprint, the compact body swerving, perfectly balanced by its tail, and our gasps mutate into soundless gapes as our necks snap around when his offensive is complemented by a flank attack by his brothers, two racing in front of us as the other circles behind us, all converging towards the hapless, desperately fleeing gazelle. Our first game drive. A live kill. We stay where we are, respecting their right to an uninterrupted dinner, and try to mute our squeals at the sight of a sudden torso in the far distance, face covered in blood. Oh my. Oh my, oh my, oh my.

The simple pleasures of life...

... sinking into freshly laundered sheets, inhaling the perfect cup of tea as the rain lashes the world outside, trying not to let the smugness overcome you as you hear from an old friend, how eager her sixteen year old is to find out if the email has been sent to 'that friend of yours', because he wants to hear my take on it. There is a mildly gloating tone shadowing my voice even as I express how flattered I am with the status bestowed upon me by the young man - it's not often that the middle ages are viewed as something desirable by that age genre, especially when she happens to be your mum's schoolmate. If that wasn't enough to make me smile, she informs me that I'm the only adult he's apparently taking advice from, nay actively soliciting for opinion. Will miracles never cease?! I will not take my smugness and retire to wallow.

Twilight

That time when reality merges with illusion like dancing shadows against the flickering candle light, insubstantial and fleeting.... a mystical time between light and dark, evoking menace and anticipation in equal measure. For most, it's the time just as sunset threatens, but for me, it's always been the coming of the dawn as I falter between consciousness, that knowledge of not being dead to the world and not yet being fully aware of one's surroundings. The time when it's so easy to believe in werewolves and vampires, when one's self is like a pool of murky water, breeding ground for a malignant mind as the strangest thoughts flit past, tweaking your senses. Indistinct, but oddly disturbing as it draws out your primeval instincts, visions of bared fangs, dripping wetly with blood. Perhaps it's the islands pristine, plastic perfection that brings out the feral, a subconscious reaction to what lies beneath. It's oddly unsettling, and never before have I drifted through so many twilights or wanted to curl up against heat and another heart beat, just to anchor myself to the living. Perhaps I should leave the shades halfway to hasten the dissipation of the twilight that seeps in through the cracks.....

That woman strikes again!

This blog has tracked random defining moments inflicted on yours truly and those associated with her by none other than the formidable Minu Guha. Pearls of wisdom, interspersed with Nazi like determination and an unquenchable thirst for world domination cunningly disguised by startling insouciance. She is an interesting woman, one with varied interests and prone to hilarious faux pas. Our conversation veers to F1 and she brings me up to speed, not at all put out by my obvious lack of knowledge of the current season, and goes on to tell me how excited it is going to be and that punters have predicted that Scumi might have a rip roaring season. Whoaaa... Scumi? She looks at me bright eyed, "Yes Scumi, you know that chappie who won all the world championships". Gales of laughter catapult me off the bed in my rush to hug her bewildered look at my mirth. "Mother! It's ScHumi! Not Scumi!!" Her wide eyed, "Really?" exacerbates my situation, and I have to be whacked on the back to stop from choking. "I always thought it was Scumi" she mutters, unrelentingly. She is adorable. Order is finally restored after Ba comes in with his, "Tch, of course it ScHumi" and she berates him for not knowing anything about F1 to begin with, but ungraciously concedes the battle of Scumi. A stray giggle escapes me, but we manage to move onto other topics of conversation, and she coaxes me to return to Bombay, and threatens to buy me a Nano for me to whizz around town. Her exact words, "You can drive the Nano all over the place... shaaaooo shaaaao korey". Haughtily I inform her that I'm not the type of girl to drive a Nano, shaaao shaaaooo or otherwise, and she goes, "I know, you're more the suvi type". I'm stymied - I am? "What?". "You know, all the suvs". Erm, no I don't know. What is the woman on about now?! "Ooof! the suvs, that's what you want to drive!" "What's a suvi??" I demand to know. "You know, the big cars". SUV! She means SUV's. The formidable one is squashed for her efforts and we agree that Scumi isn't a patch on me in a suv.

A woman and her white goods - the saga continues

"Another tiiime, anoooother day, I see you standing in my waaaay, and I stop and say Helloooo my friend...". Englebert's crooning in the far reaches of my mind serves as a snigger to my synapses as my eyes squint at the yet unchallenged white good in the new apartment. (for those that are wondering, the fridge is large and frost free - civilisation!!). While it speaks volumes as to my wardrobe and lingerie drawer, not having done a single load of laundry since I've moved into this flat now puts me in a quandary. This creature has far too many knobs, buttons and blinking lights, and with a sigh of frustration, I rifle through the virgin drawer of manuals. Not the kettle, not the TV, not the phone.. phone? I don't even have one! A-ha. Washing machine. Super. Maybe not, as my eyes register a series of unfamiliar languages, none of which inspire me with confidence. I stick my head back in and do a fair take on a demented villain looking for the key to the safe. Ta dah! ENGLISH. I take a deep breath and piously hope that the exercise does not take me too long as lunch is awaiting. A quick glance at the manual makes me cocky, and I chuck in the soap and fabric softener and decide on which program to run at what temperature. But then, there are two other knobs that ping up when I press them (curious the things that fail to catch your eye at first glance!). Hmmmm. Drying. I believe that's the one I want cranked up to the hilt but the other leaves me clueless. Clearly, having to negotiate your own laundry is one of the biggest pitfalls of getting divorced. Back to the drawing board and I scan through the pages with greater attention. Aha! temperature!! That's what the little sucker is for. Right. I'm all smiles ready to go, door locked, detergent in, knobs twirled.... but wait... what's with the blinking lights??? Back to the instructions and apparently it's to delay my wash. Why the fuck would I want to delay my wash?? I'd hardly be standing all dressed up in front of a white good for chucking my garments in if I didn't want them washed till next Tuesday, would I??! I want to start the blasted cycle so I can leave for lunch and come home to laundry that's done. If only life were that easy. It blinks. I blink back. The clock ticks. Singaporean standoff. My exasperated sigh ruffles my fringe, but doesn't deter the blinker. I open the door and shut it again, hit what I believe is the start button. Nothing. I resort to my computer skills and switch the machine off and then on again. Status quo. Blink central. Knobs check. Settings check. Soap check. Door check. Switch check. Checkmate. It won't do a damn thing. By this time, my stomach decides its been ignored for far to long and swoops into executive decision mode, pinging messages to my spine that lift my hand into action and it starts viciously jabbing at the array of buttons along the light in front of it... Eureka! Either I hit the elusive button, or the machine has prudently decided to start in self defence. I don't really care, it's now chugga chuggaing and the bin is rolling. I refuse to wait and see if there are going to be any explosions and make a beeline for the door. Round 1 to the woman. Round 2 will just have to wait till I've been fed! P.S. - Apparently, people actively choose a delayed wash, because in the event they're going out, they want to avoid coming home to severely crumpled clothes, which I have been told (with dignified authority) is what happens when you leave your washing in the machine for too long after the cycle. P.P.S - Hmmmmmmm. Clearly next time, I'd better come home from lunch at 4 pm o'clock instead of 11.45 pm!

Bintan Nahi Hai!

If Bali was Hai! then I'm afraid I must report that Bintan was Nahi Hai! It's a 45 min. ferry ride from Singapore and hallelujah, visa on arrival. A villa to ourselves, beautiful beach, a full moon, alcohol and chocolates. What more does a weekend need? How about a ferry that has provision for outdoor seating or standing for a start? Or if you feel the need to test people's seaworthiness by locking them indoors, why would you be running videos of animal birthings? (although I must admit to everyone else's horror, I was rather riveted by the sight of the first baby shark greedily snacking on it's yet to be mutated siblings with great relish in the womb, but I seemed to be in the minority). Still, Bree and I womanfully withstand the claustrophobia, bloody birth canals and bouncing boat and disembark reeking of alcohol - courtesy a broken wine bottle and nearly step on a child on the gangplank who was clearly less womanful than we were. The visa fees are a steep US$25, and in a display of the best that SE Asia has to offer, states that it's a one time entry only but valid for 30 days. Now ain't that just handy. Why would you want to charge US$10 for a single entry visa valid only for 5 days when you can just reduce the number of pages on someone's passport for US$25 in the 10 feet that it takes to get from the token issuing counter to the visa officer! Our villa at Nirwana Garden Resort or was it Beach Club offers redemption and we debate our dinner choices, settling for the restaurant dabbling in local cuisine. A buggy ride later, we arrive at our destination, and the smiles are contagious as we seat ourselves next to the lapping waves on the beach, salt breeze playing with our hair. The waiter recommends the Nasi Goreng and and we order a collection of local specialities as we wallow in the perfect atmosphere. The Indian chicken curry is the only item that makes us smile, and shockingly, the Nasi Goreng slips past indifferent to wtf.... we decline dessert and head for the beach instead. The moon is big, fat and bright, nearly a perfect circle and illuminates the beach and ocean for miles around, shying away as clouds stray in front of it. Illuminus interruptus. It's breathtakingly beautiful and makes us drawn into ourselves, our own thoughts, shivering as the breeze rustles your clothes. It's a lover's moon, a lover's night, and suddenly your own arms warding off the wind seems inadequate. Archana meanders ankle deep into the water, while Prithi and I head for the loungers. It's ridiculous. Like a postcard. The moon framed by the fronds of the palm trees edging the lounger, the clouds chasing each other sending shadows dipping over you, giving away to the moon's light. It's perfect and you can feel yourself drift into it's magic, letting it lull you to sleep. The spell is broken by the rude fact of having to get the last bus to take us back to our villa. The bus is absconding so we're directed to a buggy with instructions to wait. Naturally, a group of self respecting women will then wrestle each other to see who should drive! Our designated driver shows up, with folded hands and charmingly responds to Prithi's "Shall I drive" with a, "Yes, Yes..". Huh? She goes, "Really?", he says, "Yes, yes, I drive". "Oh, but can I drive?", "Yes, I drive", "No yes, I know that, but shall I?", "We drive, yes", "So, I can drive, yes?", "Yes, yes, I can drive", "No, can I drive?", "Yes, I can drive"..... the scintillating conversation makes my whole life flash before my life and I can no longer hold it in. "Oi! Enough - get into the damn buggy! I can see us spectating this coversation for the rest of the night!!"... "Yeah, I could see us doing this all night to". Needless to say, the giggles assailed us at this utterly ridiculous exchange with yours truly being chief perpetrator, and it was a miracle no bodies slipped out due to excessive mirth on the ride back. Back home, we break out one of the remaining two bottles of wine, to hear Archana's surprised "the water's oily". Huh? Why would the tap water be oily.. except it's not the tap water. It's her hands, the waters just rolling off it like a duck's back. "It smells" she declares as she proffers her appendages for a sniff. Oh boy. Gasoline. Her hands smell of gasoline. We take inventory of her person, and there's this thick black mark on her foot that won't come off when you swipe at it. Tar. That's why it won't come off easily. Uh oh. The beach has tar and gasoline in the water. Not exactly what we'd signed up for! We eventually roll off to bed at 3 am or similar with a strategy to leave for b'fast by 10 past 10. Breakfast is scrumptious and a smorgasbord of Asia hot foods - chicken curry, mee goreng, congee, pancakes with honey, traditional croissants, cereals, eggs and sausages/bacon and fruit amongst others. Our stroll takes us past a 'Beware of tar' sign on the beach and we resign ourselves to the pool for our afternoon agenda. This morning, we're headed for Pasar Oleh Oleh which turns out to be a tourist trap village with shops and more shops. But they do have a spa and two hours of indulgence with hot stones, herbal compress and a wonderful massage leaves us limbless. We manage to drag ourselves to the nearest restaurant for some munchies and big, fat tender coconuts. I haven't had nairal pani in years and it hits the spot. We're struggling to stay upright and decide to tank up on more salted calories to go with the rest of our alcohol and head back (this time, we were careful about picking "dark'' chocolate magnum based on the text and not just the colour of the pack! Although why anyone would put a pale gold ice cream of caramel aspirations in a dark chocolate cover I do not understand!!). Back home, we strip and head for the pool closer to us. The water is tepid, and I abandon my original plan to just wallow poolside and do it in the water instead. Breanna offers her college expertise at mixing drinks so we can drink nonchalantly by the poolside. Several minutes later (and several non flattering theories by Archana and me about thieving lushes from New York), we gather around prawn crackers and very 'strong' combinations of vodka soda, vodka orange and vodka sprite in what once was mineral water bottles. One swig. "Aaaacccaaak! Whoa". Next swig. "Grccccccccckkkkkkk. Fuck!". Final swig. Serious coughing and much back thumping. No shit Sherlock. Strong doesn't cut it. What we've got is virtually 60 proof with all the charm and subtlety of 'ghaslet'. Health and safety dictates we cling the edge of the shallow pool as we take cautious swigs and explore our vocabulary. The orange juice is vile and is abandoned without second thought, but we steadily work our way through the other two and the salties. Having gasoline poured down one's gullet makes one believe a photo shoot on the beach is appropriate so we canter down, flinging towels and inhibition (well, for some of us anyway) to the winds and give Bollywood a run for their money, thrusting tits and ass, flaunting cleavage and well..... what goes on tour, stays on tour! The sun dips, raising goose bumps and we retire to cleanse ourselves but get sidetracked by a potential jacuzzi in the main pool. Sadly, our knicked towels (well, people shouldn't leave their towels unmanned!) were left bereft as the jacuzzi refused to bubble. Still, one cannot steal someone else's towels and not use them, so we headed for the pool bar and found the perfect spot that gave us a Bollywood moon lurking like a coy bride behind a couple of palm trees and the edge of the pool lapping the other that stretched out towards the sea in the most perfect manner. Frozen margaritas were demanded but we were left confused by what was proffered. Still, want not, waste not, so amid much disdain and queries about the composition of the beverage, we did what had to be done. Archana was clearly inspired by our beach photo shoot, promptly did the whole flinging head back with hair flying over her head in the sexiest Silk Smitha manner, and while Bree was left pondering the cultural context, Prithi turned cameraman, and I director and we had our budding star do a myriad of angles and positions to get the perfect hair flinging back, droplets spraying titillatingly as her bosom breaks the water scenes. Bollywood, eat your heart out. We did have a few episodes of nearly drowning each other in our attempt at perfection combined with unmaintained mirth and the moon refused to cooperate with the photo shoot only returning as a fake looking blob on every photo. The stolen towels await us, and we decide the buffet on offer by the poolside is just perfect for our needs. Bree and I find a restroom and return with wadded wet bikinis, and I discover soon enough, that a smaller than usual sarong is not the safest thing to be wearing to a windy dinner and despite my stunning response times on a sudden flap of the sarong, I suspect I might have inadvertently flashed a few unsuspecting dinners. One presumes they were more engrossed in their satay than mine. The satay is outstanding, and we gobble between 6-8 sticks apiece. The Mongolian stir fry combined with the rice and beef is outstanding and we stuff our faces till we feel sick. That still leaves us with dessert to deal with, so we suck it up and head for the fruit and pudding table. I leave the vile green squares to Archana and focus on the familiar chocolate and fruit. The steamed pudding is spectacular and I almost wish I had taken some more. But by now, we're seriously feeling dangerously sick, so we agree to wobble back to the villa. It's been a spectacular day, and the villa fills with laughter as we share the day and our general view of life. New Zealand is our next holiday destination for December and we debate who our fourth will be (Bree's headed back for NYC by June). A glass of wine and we've agreed that we will finalise our plan and book tickets by end of April, but promise Archana that we'll rock up to India in Nov for her birthday, and toss Sri Lanka in the mix just to get the logistics (not to mention the finances) nicely juiced up. Cambodia also features somewhere in the discussion along with hot men, discrimination at work in Singapore, how the single entry visa is a rip off, how turtles survive in these waters, new careers and Prithi's scintillating dialogue with buggy man... one by one, we loose the girls and only Amma is left standing and grimaces through Mission Impossible yet another one before heading up - it's not like I'm going to have to leave the room for my massage. All too soon, we're done with another let's feed the poor breakfast/brunch and we barely have time to empty our last bottle of wine(Singapore will apparently not let you bring it back in, so what if you bought it on their shores!) before it's time to check out and head for the ferry and then a mad dash to grab the first taxi, agree to pay hafta and leave Archana with the bill as I scramble for the check in counter and my less than relaxing week ahead in HK. I can't wait for New Zealand via Sri Lanka! P.S. - Why we've never read anything about the beach being tarred in any review is beyond me!