My excitement knows no bounds! My first ice hockey match, one that I've specially flown in for.... not quite sure an afternoon mastering shockingly rude Hungarian words that involve parts of female anatomy moderated by the makings of lunch was the most appropriate way to psych myself for what I was desperately hoping would be a blood fest. Still, my education did include a few tips about the offside rule and armed with the knowledge that there are 3 thirds, gloves and jacket, we're off to Sekesfehervar to watch Alba Volan in action against the Graz 99ers. We fuss over our seats like persnickety old ladies, but are justifiably smug when every goal happens in our half of the rink and at a closing score of 4-3, that's a lot of goals!
This is the B team, and their pace leaves my breathless and ready to trade death to be able to skate as fluidly furiously as they do. My envy is a tad misplaced given a childhood in the tropics, but just watching them zip past is exhilarating. The pucks start flying, and I feel even more instant gratification, and don't even realise my hands are rubbing themselves together in glee. The whistle blows and we're off... and it's not till Ishtvan points out the swap and explains that because the game is so intense (oh yeah, baby!), that the players can come off and swap at any time they're tired, usually after 5-7 minutes of play, even less. I'll be damned! Another game where the players jump in and out of the fray while the game is in progress. Apparently, each team can have between 15-20 players, and at any given time, there's 7 on the ice, including the goalie and they can tag the others in the box when they're out of breath.... which at that blistering pace doesn't take very long. The home team has brought their band, and the thumping of the drum leads the chanting and rabble rousing cries of Hajra Volan! (Go Volan! to the rest of us..)
Naturally, the first time four of them collide into each other, and slam against the protective Plexiglas, making the cameraman and everyone in the front row flinch reflexively, I squeal with excitement.. the lack of blood spatter does little to diminish my pleasure at the savagery of the game and I bemoan my pointless youth in a warm country. Now this, this is a sport!!! It also makes you wonder, just how fast and brutal the pro league actually is - the NHL an the likes of Russia, Sweden, USA and Canada out for big bucks and national pride. Something to watch out for! While Ishtvan is displeased with the new Hungarian goalie who lets the Austrians slam in not just the equaliser but also go a goal ahead and bemoans the lack of pace, I'm thrilled to be in such a small stadium where you're on top of the players feeling every bone thunk and crunch, the thwack of the puck, the zinging through the air and crashing against the Plexiglas, the ice flying like shrapnel as the blades slice into a turn.
The last 10 minutes or so brings on another revelation and I watch in horror as the goalie saws off to the box, leaving the goal barren... What the fuck?!?! Apparently, standard tactic during the dying minutes for an all out offensive. Replace the goalie with a forward in a last minute attempt to annihilate the opposition. Whoa baby! Do these boys have the right attitude or what?! Although, given the beating the goalie gets, I'm not surprised he left the party early! Unfortunately, we didn't see any more goals or any blood at all and while it's a pity we lost, the adrenalin rush stayed and I had to be cautioned against too much joy and cheesy grin accompanied applause as the game ends. Naturally, I now have a souvenir t-shirt and several extra calories for want of any better way to splurge my excess energy....
Hajra Volan!
All things weird and wonderful....
or so I'd like to think.... even though it does make me wonder why I'm now suddenly being plagued by a series of bizarre moments...beginning with my short lived joy at having found a place to stay. Taks' benevolent 'mi casa es su casa' over hugs as he left for Columbia was apparently a limited instruction, as the one additional house guest (I had bedroom privileges) turned into two much to my consternation. The next day I return home to an open door, and even before my upward tilt verifying the 27 atop the door is complete, my brain has to grapple with the sight of a strange woman bearing down on me... 'You must be Apara', she smiles warmly... 'I must...' I falter weakly. It turns out to be upstairs neighbour and husband, deeply perturbed about the missing Internet access. It takes my growling stomach several minutes to comprehend that the crows in the study, spilling over into the kitchen is trying valiantly to restore said lost connection, although I am somewhat stymied by the assumption that I might have the missing answer. I still haven't quite understood why the upstairs neighbours were downstairs, but my stomach loudly insisted that it didn't really care.
Weird got weirder with several rather cryptic messages... comments left on this very blog. One of them in Cyrillic, the other longer than the post by several paragraphs, responding most inappropriately to my post on American absurdity in the news with stinging commentary on Obama's health care fiasco, with a threatening sign off.... more to come! Why would anyone want to spam a blog? What is going on??
A stray newspaper on the bus catches my eye, and I'm captivating by what I shall call a personal ad?
"Male and Ticklish? Earn £100+ p/h. Genuinely ticklish guys 18-40 for taking part in project where your ticklishness is tested. No nudity required. Cash £££."
Sadly, my junk just ain't good enough to research the matter further, and I just leave myself to much speculation on the sort of project that might entail such a request, for the remainder of my bus ride. I have to admit, I'm also wondering at the mechanics... £100 an hour? To be 'tickled' for an entire hour? or longer? or do they do it in short bursts? Siiigh. So many questions, and nary an answer in sight...
My weird week continues at my flat share, my attempts to rummage through the fridge for dinner rudely interrupted by the sight of tub upon tub of Flora. When I'd left that morning, I could have sworn, there were just 2 tubs. One of the cholesterol combating Flora and the other of the vile tasting Olive oil spread... I blink but they don't vanish. I shut the fridge. Frown. Open the fridge. The entire top shelf is neatly stacked with tubs of spread. Double layered. I did notice House guest/flat mate 1 and surprise house guest/flat mate 2 eating bread, but surely, surely, 14 tubs of Flora isn't really required to butter however lavishly a couple of dozen croissants?? Maybe they went for the tickle project instead of their training course??
Weird got weirder with several rather cryptic messages... comments left on this very blog. One of them in Cyrillic, the other longer than the post by several paragraphs, responding most inappropriately to my post on American absurdity in the news with stinging commentary on Obama's health care fiasco, with a threatening sign off.... more to come! Why would anyone want to spam a blog? What is going on??
A stray newspaper on the bus catches my eye, and I'm captivating by what I shall call a personal ad?
"Male and Ticklish? Earn £100+ p/h. Genuinely ticklish guys 18-40 for taking part in project where your ticklishness is tested. No nudity required. Cash £££."
Sadly, my junk just ain't good enough to research the matter further, and I just leave myself to much speculation on the sort of project that might entail such a request, for the remainder of my bus ride. I have to admit, I'm also wondering at the mechanics... £100 an hour? To be 'tickled' for an entire hour? or longer? or do they do it in short bursts? Siiigh. So many questions, and nary an answer in sight...
My weird week continues at my flat share, my attempts to rummage through the fridge for dinner rudely interrupted by the sight of tub upon tub of Flora. When I'd left that morning, I could have sworn, there were just 2 tubs. One of the cholesterol combating Flora and the other of the vile tasting Olive oil spread... I blink but they don't vanish. I shut the fridge. Frown. Open the fridge. The entire top shelf is neatly stacked with tubs of spread. Double layered. I did notice House guest/flat mate 1 and surprise house guest/flat mate 2 eating bread, but surely, surely, 14 tubs of Flora isn't really required to butter however lavishly a couple of dozen croissants?? Maybe they went for the tickle project instead of their training course??
Postcards from Africa
It's getting predictable. My inability to articulate the thrill of an incredible 7 days in Africa, the cradle of mankind. A vast continent, still hidden, still unknown, torn by natural calamity, human strife and all we did was meander through some of it... leaving you hungry for more. Even within our short trip, the contrast of tourism on offer, from the educational and ecologically savvy, where the land is respected along with its inhabitants, to the loutish demand to see the Big 5 (lion, rhino, buffalo, elephant and leopard), missing the whole point of a 'safari'. Journey. That's what it's all about. Not the destination, but the safari. The greatest thrill when you spot the unexpected, when you work for it, unsure of what you will find. When you're willing to spend the time waiting, even if nothing happens. Because that, is what a safari is about.
- Falling back spent as the last wildebeest make the crossing after a teasing build up of will they wont they and then, a heart pounding dash through the currents
- The thundering of your heart as the leopard stalks out of the trees and straight at you, ambling across the front of the jeep
- The surge of adrenalin that courses through your body at the flash of an elongated pale yellow, black spotted body in the tall grass
- Blood lust rising as every fibre of your being exhorts the cheetahs to greater speed to a kill
- Sun downers as inept lion cubs manage to chase away the impala egged on by raucous baboons
- Elephants converging towards your picnic lunch
- An elusive hippo taunting you with split second sightings of its twiddling ears breaking the surface of the pond
- Curious baby jackals sniffing at your jeep
- Conservation, flawless service, comfort and warmth of the camp that serves the best strawberry mousse anywhere (Kicheche Camps, Ol Pejeta - outstanding!)
- The stinging rain as you drive into a thunderstorm out in the open plain
Erm, emergency....
The throbbing pain is underlined by the strange bump in my forearm strongly suggesting a broken bone. A few discreet yet firm pokes around the area hurt but not like the hell a broken bone is supposed to imply. But then, I notice the middle bit of my middle finger has turned a very fetching blue…. Hmmm, this calls for professional intervention and a trip to the emergency room at the Lilavati makes an appearance on the agenda. We hover around a nearly empty room and I’m waved towards a chair which I decline. Apparently, it wasn’t a polite gesture but my initiation to the casualty team and the male nurse, secure in his masculinity in hot pink scrubs smiling insists the chair is for me. I grudgingly sit down to have my BP and pulse checked feeling more than just a tad foolish for rocking up to a place of serious injuries and trauma (yep, waaay to many American TV dramas) and display my slightly crooked arm furtively explaining that I hit it and it went wonky and my fingers now also turning blue. The young doctor demands explanations, oblivious to my embarrassment and I mumble something about hitting him. Naturally, young as he might be, his hearing seems to be somewhat impaired and he loudly asks, “What happened? How did it happen?”. I try to keep my sheepishness at bay and repeat myself a few decibels higher, “I was hitting him”. Shocked eyes swivel to the him in question, who hastens to add with arms flailing in defensive head protecting position, that’s all he was doing at the time. The doctor investigates and sends off the object of my wrath to pay for x-rays and instructions the nurse to inject me with something (painkiller, I assume?). Naturally, a simple jab in the arm would hardly be in keeping with the theme of the evening and she direly informs me that “It will pain a lot”, so an exposed bum is a necessity. Oddly enough, the woman is spot it – even the jab hurts as she withdraws the needle and I spend most of my time after, rubbing my butt. Monies have been deposited and we’re sent off to the x-ray department. This time it’s a skinny little radiologist that wants to know “How did it happen?". Another won’t look you in the eye mumble, “I was hitting him” elicits a chuckle from the examining doctor (what he was doing at radiology, I do not know) and the skinny chap takes note of my raging mortification and the general hilarity of the accompanying males, restricts himself to a knowing "Aaaah" and ushers me to the radiation chamber. A few minutes of being irradiated, he confirms that nothing is broken and prescribes medication and an ice pack and hands me a large envelope with fetching negatives of my ulna, radial ulna and meta carpals. Fascinating. What better way to spend a Saturday night ?!
Less is more
Trite, but true and glaringly ignored. Be it in our responses to client bids or the acquisition of gadgetry in our daily lives. The last three months have seen me sans TV, broadband, radio and videophone with only minor aggravation. Mostly because I have no visitors that need me to scurry down in my PJ's to open the summons of the front door. I have however, had several seconds of my life devoted in the pursuit of trying to locate my mobile phone and even watching in horrified fascination as the bulky telephone installed in the quaint red phone boxes consumed my coins faster than a bulimic shark as I left a desperate message to keep calling till I answered the phone. Since then, I've been circumspect about where I leave the instrument and my keys so as to avoid ageing as I feverishly hunt them down, either before bed or before leaving the house.
Naturally, since I now have that routine down pat (drop keys in front of the door and phone on the bed), it only remains for the damn things themselves to stop cooperating, and the BlackBerry does so with abandon and no warning. I flick my thumb over the track ball and it impudently mocks me by doing nothing. I try and again and it responds with a little teasing move up, before lapsing into sullen non movement. Several more epithets yield nothing. So I try a slew of fetching endearments. Bupkis, zilch, squat. I can't read emails. I can't check my calendar. I can't set my alarm. I can't call anyone unless I know their number by heart. My life is on hold because I can now no longer scroll. My stomach growls in annoyance because bachhi is appalling late for lunch, but I can't do anything about it because I can't call or text. Eventually, she does, and I pacify el growlo with a three course lunch. Fortune smiles on me as a freshly manicured Bewdi bears down on my farewell, and I co-opt her to inspect the oj stain on my carpet and then wind up watching Pelham 123, Forest Gump (well some of it), chewing some stray bones and eliciting a promise of a wake up call at 7 am. Now if I can only get the damn alarm to stop snoozing!
Naturally, since I now have that routine down pat (drop keys in front of the door and phone on the bed), it only remains for the damn things themselves to stop cooperating, and the BlackBerry does so with abandon and no warning. I flick my thumb over the track ball and it impudently mocks me by doing nothing. I try and again and it responds with a little teasing move up, before lapsing into sullen non movement. Several more epithets yield nothing. So I try a slew of fetching endearments. Bupkis, zilch, squat. I can't read emails. I can't check my calendar. I can't set my alarm. I can't call anyone unless I know their number by heart. My life is on hold because I can now no longer scroll. My stomach growls in annoyance because bachhi is appalling late for lunch, but I can't do anything about it because I can't call or text. Eventually, she does, and I pacify el growlo with a three course lunch. Fortune smiles on me as a freshly manicured Bewdi bears down on my farewell, and I co-opt her to inspect the oj stain on my carpet and then wind up watching Pelham 123, Forest Gump (well some of it), chewing some stray bones and eliciting a promise of a wake up call at 7 am. Now if I can only get the damn alarm to stop snoozing!
Headlines - September 20, 2010
Since I don't possess a TV or subscribe to a newspaper delivery or broadband, my only source of what is happening on this Big Blue Marble is at work. Helpful exclamations from colleagues, business alerts and my personal favourite, the Beeb online and today has offered up a rather interesting collection of news items.
I'm thrilled by the report on the discovery of an apparent colony of tigers in significantly higher altitudes of the Himalayas in Bhutan and a full family at that. Now if we can only keep the poachers from finding them. As usual, I wonder at the consumers that pay for the imagined miraculous properties that their bodies will bestow and conjure up cruel and creative ways to punish them. But for now, the sight of the big male sniffing his territory makes me smile and the thought of a lactating female makes me want to gush like a dotty old spinster aunt - babies!!!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/earth/hi/earth_news/newsid_8998000/8998042.stm
I wallow in the tigers for a while before moving on to the intriguing headline of the Top 10 Unanswerable questions and my bemusement knows no bounds. I really do worry about the future of the human race if these are the most compelling questions that plague that part of the population that can read, write and have access to technology.....
1. What is the meaning of life?
2. Is there a God?
3. Do blondes have more fun?
4. What is the best diet?
5. Is there anybody out there?
6. Who is the most famous person in the world?
7. What is love?
8. What is the secret to happiness?
9. Did Tony Soprano die?
10. How long will I live?
Siiiiigh. Hopefully long enough to realise that falling asleep on the job when you're a thief is an unsound career move http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-pacific-11361067
Well, at least there's some levity from the deaths from landslides, train crashes and election results that make you wish our DNA mutated to that of the tigers.
I'm thrilled by the report on the discovery of an apparent colony of tigers in significantly higher altitudes of the Himalayas in Bhutan and a full family at that. Now if we can only keep the poachers from finding them. As usual, I wonder at the consumers that pay for the imagined miraculous properties that their bodies will bestow and conjure up cruel and creative ways to punish them. But for now, the sight of the big male sniffing his territory makes me smile and the thought of a lactating female makes me want to gush like a dotty old spinster aunt - babies!!!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/earth/hi/earth_news/newsid_8998000/8998042.stm
I wallow in the tigers for a while before moving on to the intriguing headline of the Top 10 Unanswerable questions and my bemusement knows no bounds. I really do worry about the future of the human race if these are the most compelling questions that plague that part of the population that can read, write and have access to technology.....
1. What is the meaning of life?
2. Is there a God?
3. Do blondes have more fun?
4. What is the best diet?
5. Is there anybody out there?
6. Who is the most famous person in the world?
7. What is love?
8. What is the secret to happiness?
9. Did Tony Soprano die?
10. How long will I live?
Siiiiigh. Hopefully long enough to realise that falling asleep on the job when you're a thief is an unsound career move http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-pacific-11361067
Well, at least there's some levity from the deaths from landslides, train crashes and election results that make you wish our DNA mutated to that of the tigers.
I seem to have a most peculiar knack of snookering myself when it comes to booking my travel dates. Yet again, I have manage to screw up the dates, and have to forgo a long awaited comedy night out to catch a flight instead and that, is the good bit. The less good bit is the spreadsheet I'm blinking at. India, Kenya, London, India, London, Budapest, London, Florida, Mexico, India. The matrix resembles the film as I factor in baggage allowance, climatic conditions, days in each location, potential repeats, borrowed bags, storage provisions and the order of packing. Siiiigh. I'm exhausted and I haven't reached for a bag yet or confirmed dates to the hapless souls who will be welcoming me home in some shape or fashion over the next few months in rather alarming combinations. There used to be a time when I had a great desire to be wedded to a Chinese cook. These days, I'm looking to pledge my troth to a good PA cum packer who will relieve me of the mind numbing decision of whether to take my tulip dress or not....!
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