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!

Nemesis strikes back!

It's been almost 15 years, but the memory of the sickly sweet scent of flaming Sambucca shots at Trafalgar square lingers in my nostrils as if it was yesterday. I have been assiduously diligent in side stepping it's evil odour, even to the extent of incurring gourmet wrath. Ouzo is an anathema an any attempt send my nostrils quivering in indignation and self defense.

Oddly enough, it was more visions of sugar plums (yeah right!) that were wafting through my head as I stripped off my clothes and lay face down on the bed as instructed by the lovely young woman who came to our villa bearing a wicker basket. As I snuggled my face into the pillow, peculiar mosaics of red riding hood and the big bad wolf juggling some bread and cheese lingered behind my eyes, partly responsible for the upward tug of my lips. Soft but firm hands patting me down might have been the other reason. Certainly a good way to prime oneself of breakfast.

I feel the slickness of oil spreading along my calf and my shoulders drop in supplication, embedding me deeper into the bed. My descent into nirvana (wonder if this compares to a pre-wash cycle on a sophisticated washing machine) commences, only to have my nostrils quiver uncertainly. I dismiss it as the yet to be defined scent of the oil slickly covering my legs, the kneading pressure of those hands exquisite on my butt. My nostrils flare, sending shivers of alarm down my spine. Something is amiss in paradise. My once compliant shoulders tense imperceptibly, unsure whether to follows the synapses or the nasal signals. Any pretence at being relaxed has flown out the window and my entire body is focused on the whispering strands of something invasively familiar.... As she moves to my other leg, the sickly sweet scent of anise wafts through the room as the warm oil is slathered on my skin, insidiously oozing into my pores.

I now understand how a deer caught in the headlight feels. Trapped, unable to move, petrified of what it's being assailed by. A soft moan escapes my lips as I turn and bury my head into the pillow, leaving my body to deal with the complexities of acquiring oxygen from fabric. My brain soothingly coos at me... "it's not that bad, it's just an initial start, like the top notes of a perfume you don't much care for.." No, really?! Might I remind you that you are attached to a woman who does not wear perfume (or has only ever worn 2 scents in her entire 40 years?!). Strong fingers on my butt distract me and I acquiesce to the sensations that brings instead... talk about a dilemma!! Pleasure and pain. Moans and groans. Hoist by one's own petard. I can't wait for breakfast!