Poetry Night

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T.S. Eliot (1888–1965)

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown

Happy Hallmark Holiday

(Wow that sounded cynical!)

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!!

Especially to my Special Valentine who is currently in Addis Ababa!

Stripes and Spots

I really need to start taking a camera with me when I go out of the apartment so that I can capture those wonderfully unusual moments that only happen when you least expect them. Earlier today I went on a field trip with the local Association to the Naivasha area to visit an artist’s studio. The artist’s work was quite impressive and I may or may not have purchased a lovely metal sculpture of a Masai warrior for the guest room. We spent a pleasant day at the farm/gallery and ate a very tasty lunch of salad and vegetarian lasagna before we hit the road for our return trip back to Nairobi.

During the hour and a half drive back into town we passed the Escarpment, lots of farms, and beautiful scenery. We saw lots of surprisingly cute donkeys and then I saw the most curious thing.

We drove past a small herd of black and white spotted cows grazing in the field next to the road. Not an unusual sight, I’ll grant you, but intermixed with these bovines was a herd of black and white striped zebras – also grazing. The ladies in the car with me (most of whom were long-timers here in Nairobi) were equally astonished at the unusual sight.

We joked that they couldn’t tell the difference between their spots and stripes and simply saw that they looked more or less the same. The small differences didn’t matter to them: they just wanted to be friends and share a patch of grass.

It’s amazing what we can learn from nature.

My Pretty, Pretty Prison

As I sit here typing these words to you, Hubby is in the process of flying off on yet another business trip. This week, he will be off to Ethiopia, back home for a day, and then jetting off to Indonesia for a week followed by a day in Bangkok. I have a feeling (or what some observant people might call a “hope”) that the trip to Indonesia might get cancelled due to really yucky weather and flooding.

While he is off enjoying the jet setting lifestyle, I will enjoy our newly decorated apartment back here in Nairobi. Don’t get me wrong: I enjoy our apartment, especially now that we’ve made a good dent in the framing and hanging of artwork throughout the rooms. Nature photographs taken by my late Father-in-Law are splashed throughout and always receive compliments from visitors. My new pride and joy; however, is a framed TTC subway map from Toronto (pre-Sheppard line).

On the downside of our lovely quarters are our neighbors: the construction workers who often start their noisy hammering shortly before 8:00 a.m. and do not let up until they are sure you are awake. That, of course, is when they start the quiet, interior work. Isn’t that considerate of them?

The new building next door was scheduled for completion (or so we were told) before Christmas. They have obviously missed that particular deadline. Our landlord has informed us that the new end date for this horrible, dust-creating noise pit is six months from now. I’m sure that you all empathize with just how much I’ll miss the lovely construction workers who peer in my windows and watch TV with me every afternoon. I’ve been decorating the apartment as much for them as for myself since I want them to have something pretty to look at all day while they’re not getting any perceptible progress done on the building.

My favorite part of Hubby’s trips is always the cooking: I get to cook all sorts of yummy treats that he doesn’t like or approve of. On the menu for this evening is Chicken Veronique with Curried Rice: a long time childhood favorite from when my father used to go on business trips. So really, making it tomorrow is just upholding a longstanding family tradition. And trying a new Jamie Oliver recipe for Mac and Cheese (From scratch, thank you!) on Tuesday is upholding my new tradition of trying out a new recipe every week. I don’t want to make it: I have to.

So sweetie, while you’re gone on these grueling trips, be confident in the knowledge that I’m in elegantly comfortable (if noisy) surroundings and I’m eating lots of healthy food. Or I would be if I didn’t have so many darned traditions to honor.

Sofa Bed Redux

Earlier this week, I asked you all which bed I should buy: the boring futon or the beautiful daybed. I struggled with the decision, as I’m sure you can imagine, and not only because I’m the world’s most indecisive person. As all of you women out there can understand, this was more than a decorating dilemma: I would also have to put up with a certain Mr. Cheapo (aka Mr. Frugal, aka Mr. My-Wife-Spends-All-Our-Money, aka Hubby) if he didn’t like how I spent “his” money.

The daybed, as you may recall, was more expensive and thus sure to trigger an eventual response from the aforementioned holder of the purse stings if (when) it was selected. But it was sooooo pretty!!! And if there’s one thing all those John Hughes movies about high school taught me, it’s that pretty is always better than not pretty. (Oh, and some claptrap about the importance of friendship but I tuned that part out while I grooved to that always impeccable soundtrack of the 80’s.)



Is anyone here really surprised by my eventual choice? I didn’t think so.

(Hubby Edit by Typ0: He wants me to point out that he did not begrudge the cost as it is an investment, he really liked the daybed, and that he isn’t cheap... much.)

Living and Surviving in Nairobi

I’m not saying that the media overreact or blow things out of proportion… But come on! I’ve seen less reactive stories about war zones than the Reuters article below.

That said…

Please, guys, come visit us! Nairobi maybe isn’t as safe as, say, Toronto (few places are), but is a perfectly great town if you take reasonable precautions. You do need to be careful: windows up while driving, doors locked at all times, keen awareness of your surroundings, don’t stop on the side of the road, don’t carry huge amounts of money or jewelry on your person…

Oh and don’t arrive at the Hubby/Typ0 household without one or more of the following: minimum two weeks notice, (numerous boxes of) Kraft Mac & Cheese, books/DVDs preordered by yours truly, wine... You know: rent!

Seriously though, Kenya isn’t a walk in the park (Well, Central Park in the 80’s maybe…), but it is reasonably safe if you take the appropriate precautions that you would in any big city. Despite the fact that we may now be on the United States’ “think carefully before visiting” list, I urge you to add Kenya to your future travel plans and not just because I have some books I need to order from Amazon. This is a beautiful country and there are lots of things to do and see.

Give Kenya a whirl and you’ll soon find, like we did, that this is a fabulous country just waiting to be discovered!

Jambo!

U.S. warns citizens of violent crime in Kenya

NAIROBI (Reuters) - The United States has told its citizens to think carefully about visiting Kenya due to an upsurge in violent crime it said the Kenyan authorities had a limited capacity to deal with.

The warning was issued after high-profile carjackings involving U.S. citizens. On Sunday, an American woman traveling in the car of a top Kenyan AIDS researcher was shot by carjackers who killed her friend and wounded his wife.

Last month, carjackers shot dead two American women -- the relatives of a U.S. diplomat -- as they sat in a U.S. embassy car on the outskirts of Nairobi.

The travel advisory issued on Tuesday asked Americans to "consider carefully the risks of travel to Kenya ... due to ongoing safety and security concerns."

"Violent criminal attacks, including armed carjacking and home invasions and burglary, can occur at any time and in any location and are becoming increasingly frequent brazen, vicious, and often fatal," the advisory said.

"Kenyan authorities have limited capacity to deter and investigate such acts," it added.

Washington already maintains a high-level travel advisory against Kenya and has issued a specific warning about terrorist threats in the past after the U.S. embassy in Nairobi was bombed in 1998, killing 214 people.

There has been an increasing number of reports of attacks on diplomats or their families in the past six months.

In September, a U.S. embassy official was shot in the chest, while a month earlier, the Russian ambassador was stabbed while on the roadside attending to a sick grandchild.

Carjackings of Kenyans and foreigners are common in Nairobi, where gangsters pounce on people for cash, bank cards, mobile phones or cars. Rapes are also common during the robberies.

Reading Memory Lane

After reading my email this morning, I found myself perusing what many of you know to be one of my favorite entertainment websites: ew.com. After checking out the always-witty Popwatch, I noticed a link for an article about those books we read as kids that our parents disapproved of… or would have if they had known we were reading them. What amuses me the most about this article is how many of the books I too devoured… sometimes repeatedly. After all, that bit of “prehistoric porn” that the author mentions is a mainstay in my keeper shelf to this day.

I wonder what the whispered-about books will be for the current generation of youngins. Are they still enthralled with Judy Blume and VC (I’ve been dead for years but am still publishing new books) Andrews? Is “Adrian Mole” still considered avant guard and riské? Or are modern kids too above it all and attached to their Nintendo Wii to care?

What about you? Do relate to the books Ms. Jordan mentions or was my childhood literacy problem more of an issue than I thought?

Scarlet Letters
V.C. Andrews' ''Flowers in the Attic'' series? Judy Blume's ''Forever''? Stephen King's ''Christine''? If you hid your reading list from your parents, you're not alone.

By Tina Jordan

My ''Confessions'' column last week — about my daughter's penchant for Gossip Girl novels — unleashed a torrent of commentary from fellow staffers at the magazine, many of whom stopped by my office to talk about the books they'd snuck as teenagers. Everyone pretty much agreed: This kind of surreptitious reading is a traditional rite of passage. But what surprised me was how many of my colleagues — separated not just by geography but by generation — turned to the same books for their, uh, information: The Godfather (page 27 was specifically mentioned by two people), Lady Chatterley's Lover, Jaws, The Diary of Anais Nin, The Other Side of Midnight, and anything by Judy Blume or John Jakes (though, as senior editor Thom Geier said, ''But Jakes tended to write his sex scenes in language so obscure that you'd have to go rushing to the dictionary to figure out what in the world he was trying to say. And even then, you didn't really learn very much''). Seven people cited Stephen King's Christine, including senior editor Nicholas Fonseca: ''Mom saw me reading it and she said, ''How can you read that? I remember the movie being really full of foul language!'''

Over half the women mentioned V.C. Andrews' ''incest classics.'' Senior writer Karen Valby said, ''The Flowers in the Attic series wouldn't have gone over very well if my mother had ever peeked inside.'' Almost all the women cited Judy Blume's Forever, which as far as I can tell was the first Blume novel with an actual sex scene. ''I remember reading Forever in the sixth grade!'' said photo editor Michele Romero. ''This puts me at 11 — way too young, in hindsight. Is there a statute of limitations on reprimanding your inner child? Anyway, I do recall that we had the 'virginity loss' page folded over and would pass it back and forth under the desk.'' At my junior high school, back in Denton, Texas, it was on the ''Forbidden Book List'' — if you were caught with it, you were first sent to the office and then sent home.

At first I was surprised that so many of my colleagues — nine in all — mentioned Scott Turow's Presumed Innocent, since I was in graduate school when it came out. Then I remembered how old I am, and how young most of them are. As writer Scott Brown put it, delicately, ''[It had] the first sex scene I ever read, and it wasn't, er, traditional sex. I could barely figure out what was going on. But I did figure it out, thanks to careful study and many, many readings.'' Another staff writer, Greg Kirschling, concurred: ''You remember how raunchy that book's sex scenes were? Great twist at the end, too. But then my mother took it with her on a vacation with my dad and I remember her walking back through the front door with her bags still in her arms and immediately walking up to me in the kitchen, plopping the paperback down on the counter, and saying, 'We need to have a talk.'''

Assistant managing editor Kristen Baldwin was one of several who read — and reread — Jean M. Auel's Clan of the Cave Bear: ''I'm pretty sure my mom knew I was reading it — I mean, she was the one who had to drive me to the mall to go book shopping — but I don't think she had any idea how capital-F filthy that book is. It's prehistoric porn!'' EW book critic Jennifer Reese was partial to Judith Krantz's Scruples: ''It looked like just another slightly racy supermarket paperback — the only kind of book I liked to read as an adolescent — but when I got about, I don't know, 32 pages in, there was this sex scene where they did things I had never even heard about. I mean, Judy Blume was fine but she's all about missionary mechanics and tender, proper emotions; this was shocking and thrilling and raw. I got quite an education: about gay sex, about oral sex, about the fashion world, about opening a boutique... but mostly about sex.''

Of course, most EW staffers were lucky enough to have parents with open minds when it came to books. Music writer Chris Willman recalls, ''In the fourth grade in 1972, I turned in a book report on the Donald E. Westlake novel The Hot Rock, having been duly inspired to read it by the Robert Redford/George Segal jewelry-heist movie of the same name. My teacher was horrified... though I'm not sure if it's because I was reading 'adult' books or because I was confessing that my parents took me at 10 or 11 to see GP-rated movies, which then was the sign of really morally wanton parenting.'' Greg Kirschling remembers that in one of his progress reports at his Catholic school, ''my teacher wrote: 'I'm concerned about what he reads but so long as he has parental approval I will not interfere.' My favorite books that term were Red Dragon, Fatal Vision, and the dirtiest novels of Ed McBain.''

So, EW readers, let's have it: What books — forbidden or not — were you learning from as teenagers?

Super Bowl Blues

Obviously my future career is not in picking the outcomes of sporting events. The yucky Colts beat my Bears down 29 to 17. We could claim that the rain hampered our otherwise stupendous efforts. After all even Prince paid homage to the weather in his halftime performance of "Purple Rain."

That rather damp excuse, of course, would ignore the pathetic performance by Bears quarterback Rex Grossman. I famously throw like a girl (on a good day) and I'm pretty sure I could have turned in a more impressive performance than this guy! Of course, that's been the story all season - it isn't anything new. But you'd think that they would have practiced a little and beat some skills into the guy before the biggest game of the season.

I am a big girl (or chi-lud if you prefer), and can admit when I'm wrong. Congratulations to the Indianapolis Colts on your big win.

Bears: there's always next season!

The Sofa Bed Wars

So it is finally the start of a new week and I'm having a decorating versus money conflict. I realize that there are serious problems in the world, but with Dobhi Wallah (aka Queen E) and Dobhi Wallah’s friend coming in a month, this issue is becoming slowly but surely more serious as time goes on.

Here’s the deal: we have this extra room that is supposed to be my sitting room. As Hubby has his office, this would somewhere for me to sit with my knitting or romances. In other words, the things Hubby doesn’t want littering up the rooms his intelligentsia friends might see when they visit. It is also the second guest room, or is supposed to be. Currently, other than junk (since it has become the junk room), there's not much in it other than my (slightly underused) elliptical machine and my books. The immediate quandary is that we need to use it to house people by the end of the month. And that means that we finally have to get a sofa bed, futon, or daybed. (Please note that the room would also serve as a nursery if we had an oops, so a comfy place to sit is also practical!)

So here’s where we’re at today:

We found a futon. It has metal frame, is affordable, and is boringly utilitarian.

We also found a lovely and pretty daybed. It has a handcrafted wood frame with all the bolsters, cushions, and the mattress included in the price with the frame... Which is slightly less than affordable.

The former, of course, would open up into a double bed, meaning that when you added our dedicated guest room to the equation, we could have up to two couples staying with us at a time. My daybed, on the other hand, is just a single unless two really skinny people wanted to tightly snuggle: we would be able to host one less guest.

Hubby’s choice is less attractive and grey although he claims that it’s rather comfy. I should also note that I probably would have liked it and picked it up on the spot if we hadn’t first seen the daybed. The daybed, on the other hand and in case I haven’t mentioned it, is sooooo pretty! And I would definitely take it with us on our next move, which means that it’s an investment.

With the end of the month approaching ever nearer, I have to order one of them tomorrow if DW’s friend is going to have a place to sleep in time. But which one should I get? The pretty one I love but is expensive? Or the slightly less attractive one that is affordable and means we could house up to one extra person at a time?

To be fair, Hubby says its up to me and is being really open minded about the fact that he knows I want the pretty one. But the tiny little practical part of my mind that do my best to repress is telling me that I should get the ugly one and save money.

HELP!!! What do you think?

A Super Bowl of Chips

The hype leading up to Superbowl XLI has reached such a fever pitch that even innocent civilians who know that football is really soccer have been sucked into the abyss. Everywhere you turn, be it sports radio, television, or even the Internet, you are inundated with news about this American sporting event. Two giants of the game, the Chicago Bears and the Indianapolis Colts, will face each other on the gridiron in Miami, Florida. But who has it in them to take home that famous trophy? Which team deserves to wear the ring proclaiming themselves Superbowl champions?

Who cares?!

Yes, I know that if we were in the States right now, I’d be psyched about attending a Superbowl party at somebody’s house. I’d be looking forward to party night staples of yummy Superbowl munchies, many uncounted drinks, and bets that didn’t include complicated math or point spreads. Chances are that I would even know who was performing in the halftime show. (Who is it anyways?) Most of all, I’d be looking forward to the drama that would mark the night forever in my memory: the commercials!

Without the multimillion-dollar ads (which don’t air outside the US on game night), the party, or the snackage to look forward to, I’m not sure whether I can gather enough energy to cheer for the game this year. Add to that the fact that in order to watch the game, we’ll need to be awake at 2:00 a.m. Monday morning. (The pre-game nonsense, for those lucky Nairobi-based fans, will start at 9:00 p.m., Sunday night.)

Needless to say, I intend to wake up at a humane hour on Monday (around 9ish, thank you) and look-up the highlights, lowlights, and Monday morning quarterbacking on the Internet. You know, like a sane person!

Of course, if anyone were to force me to cheer for a team… I mean, if a certain Hubby wanted to bet a romantic night at Tamarind versus a freshly baked carrot cake… If I absolutely had to pick a team to win outright…

‘Da Bears!!!

We Want Food

Back in Delhi, Hubby and I were known as people who rarely ate in and knew most of the restaurants, take aways, and delivery places in town so well that they knew us by sight. The best of these, of course, found loving homes in my cell phone’s speed dial. We had a rotation for those we visited regularly in person and those we relied upon for feeding us via delivery bike. The reason, as those of you lucky enough to visit us in Golf Links knew, was that our kitchen was not terribly functional and was about as well lit as a coat closet. In addition to the lack of cooking facilities, there are no real supermarkets in Delhi and good ingredients are hard to come by unless you’re up to visiting five different shops for each recipe.

Life in Nairobi is slightly different than that. We have a big kitchen with huge windows and lots of counter space and cupboards. This, it should be noted, is the nicest kitchen we’ve ever had in either the developing or Real World. When you add the convenience of proper supermarkets and lovely specialty stores, I’m sure you’ll understand why we have rediscovered our “joy of cooking” (if you’ll pardon the pun).

That said, I’m not about to give up my enjoyment of eating in nice restaurants even if Hubby’s cooking is some of the best to be found on either side of the Atlantic. So we have found ourselves out and about in Nairobi experimenting with new places to put into our speed dial. Although we haven’t yet found any good delivery outlets, we have discovered that Nairobi is a pretty good food town.

Whether you’re looking for Thai food or drinks followed by fancy bar snacks, ABC Center is a great place to head to on a Saturday afternoon. The happy hour at Mercury Bar makes having a few strawberry cosmopolitans and a plate of chicken fingers an affordable snack after a long day of looking for new curtains. Should you find yourself hungry for supper after this snack, the new Thai place next door, Orchid, is a wee bit pricey but entirely yummy. Hubby and I were lucky enough to be there on opening day and we both found the shrimp pad thai to be both authentic and delicious. The young owner imports ingredients direct from Thailand and actually has two Thai women working in the kitchen to ensure quality control.

For a night out at the bar followed by cute pouting for a meal, I’d head for the mall at the Westlands traffic circle. While I’m not saying that I’m a regular at the Tamambo bar, I won’t deny that they tend to prepare a margarita on the rocks (no salt) when they see me coming up the escalator. The attached restaurant is fabulous and you can order from the full menu at the bar. If continental food like ostrich fajitas or ulagi fries aren’t your ball of wax, you can walk two feet across the hall to Haandi. This fabulous restaurant specializes in North Indian cuisine and introduced us to the masala papadam which is a giant papad bruchetta.

Around the corner from the Sarit center is Furusato, a great Japanese restaurant whose only fault so far is that they seem to think that tempura requires only enough dipping sauce (or whatever it’s called) to satisfy a single carrot. Luckily the waiters seem to realize the lack and always have a knowing grin and a larger bowl ready as soon as you ask.

Lebanese food is a staple in our going out traditions here in Nairobi. While the Phoenician (in the Westlands) gets more press, Cedars (located in Kilimani) is my favourite place to spend lunch on Saturday afternoons. The tabouleh isn’t great but is more than made up for by the bite-sized schwarma and delicious fatoush. Of course, if it’s Friday night and you feel like getting a little Mediterranean ambience, then the place to go is definitely Casablanca where hooka pipes adorn the tables and large cushioned bench seats are the order of the day.

The oddest part of Casablanca is that it doesn’t actually serve food that matches the décor. They’re in cahoots with Osteria Del Chianti, an Italian restaurant which just happens to be directly around the corner if you’re driving or through the trees at the left if you’re walking to pick up a plate of cheese-less pizza for weird American, almost-bald men who go by the name Hubby but who will otherwise remain nameless.

If you’re in the mood for Italian but don’t feel like paying quite as much as Osteria charges, then Mediterraneo at the Junction is a great choice. The upstairs balcony area makes for a nice alfresco dining experience and the affordable menu has choices ranging from pizza diavola to penne Gorgonzola with rocket to veal marasla. The biggest problem with Mediterraneo is that they don’t have canolli on their dessert menu, which, in my opinion, is a criminal offence.

There are other fabulous dining experiences in town like Tamarind, Java House (OK that one isn’t fabulous but they do have nice chocolate croissants and coffee!), Café Latino, Carnivore, Pampa Grill (the latter two, of course, are better known by Devoted Readers as “All You Can Eat Meat”), and Pepper’s where I had a lovely and tasty lunch just yesterday. But this episode of blog is getting rather long so you’ll have to wait until the next time that PMS and writer’s block coincide to find out about those and many others.

Bon appetit!

You’re a Wizard Harry

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

Can I tell you how incredibly happy, thrilled and excited I am right now? Should I even bother to tell you that I’ve been squealing like a 13 year old girl and bouncing all over the living room for the last 10 minutes?

Don’t even tell me that you haven’t heard the news yet! What kind of rock have you been hiding under?!

Well, here’s the dirt: the new Harry Potter book, “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” is coming out on Saturday, July 21, 2007!!!!!!!

The information about book 7 has been confirmed at Mugglenet and on JKR’s own website.

The best part of the news? I am going to be in the States when the book comes out!!!!

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

In summation:

Harry Potter
Book seven
“Deathly Hallows”
July 21st
and
I am so going to be there!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My Little Gold Friend

Several of you had been wondering about my lack of blogging over that most important of news items from the past week: the Oscar race. My biggest hurdle in this episode of Blog was finding sincere love (or even insincere like) for most of the nominees. Part of the problem, I realize, is that I haven’t seen any of the nominated movies. But in an attempt to redeem myself in your eyes, Beloved Readers, I promise to buy at least some of them on DVD. (And if they’re really good I may even get non-pirated ones.)

Best Picture
Babel
The Departed
Letters From Iwo Jima
Little Miss Sunshine
The Queen

Any look at the Oscar class of 2007 obviously has to start with the Best Picture category. Since I haven’t seen a single one of these films, I have decided to base my vote on gossip from E!News. Well, “The Queen” seems more like a movie of the week than an Oscar contender so it (and all its subsequent nominations) was immediately thrown out. I’m not a fan of Westerns and therefore not a fan of Clint Eastwood, so “Iwo Jima” is also out of the running. That leaves us with “Babel” starring Brad (I cheated on my wife because all men are scum) Pitt, “The Departed,” starring Leo (I’ll always be that guy from Titanic) DiCaprio, and “Little Miss Sunshine” a feel good movie starring some kid who wishes she was Dakota Fanning.

What does all that mean? Basically that I have no particular favorite for Best Picture but if I’m forced (which you are doing) to make a selection I’ll lean toward “Sunshine.” Hey, I was ever one to cheer for the underdog.

Best Actor
Leonardo DiCaprio, "Blood Diamond"
Ryan Gosling, "Half Nelson"
Peter O'Toole, "Venus"
Will Smith, "The Pursuit of Happyness"
Forest Whitaker, "The Last King of Scotland"

This one should be a wee bit easier as I’m not going to cheer for the old guy (O’Toole), or the kid from “Titanic.” Gosling needs to put in more work to win one of these, I’m afraid. Which leaves us with the Fresh Prince and the football player from Hubby’s all-time favorite movie “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.” I’d be happy with either one taking home the golden man.

Best Actress
Penelope Cruz, "Volver"
Judi Dench, "Notes on a Scandal"
Helen Mirren, "The Queen"
Meryl Streep, "The Devil Wears Prada"
Kate Winslet, "Little Children"

This one is a unanimous vote in the Typ0/Hubby household: Kate Winslet all the way. She’s been nominated several times before and is a terrific actress. Go Kate!!

Best Supporting
Actor Alan Arkin, "Little Miss Sunshine"
Jackie Earle Haley, "Little Children"
Djimon Hounsou, "Blood Diamond"
Eddie Murphy, "Dreamgirls"
Mark Wahlberg, "The Departed"

We should get rid of the easy idiots first: Eddie Murphy is still the guy from those classic 80’s movies. Don’t get me wrong: I love watching “Coming to America” when it’s on TNT for the fourth time this week, but he’s no Oscar winner. Next we need to ditch the guy who posed in his undies and was the Mark in “Marky Mark and the Fresh Bunch.” I’ve never heard of Haley so he’s out too. Sorry! That leaves us with Alan (I’m boring) Arkin and my pick to take home the statue: Djimon Hounsou who is not only hot but a very talented actor.

Best Supporting Actress
Adriana Barraza, "Babel"
Cate Blanchett, "Notes on a Scandal"
Abigail Breslin, "Little Miss Sunshine"
Jennifer Hudson, "Dreamgirls"
Rinko Kikuchi, "Babel"

Yet another category with no one for whom I wish to cast my vote. Having the American Idol reject (Hudson) win would be nice if only because it would thoroughly upset Beyonce (I’m incredibly overrated) Knowles.

Best Directing
Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, "Babel"
Martin Scorsese, "The Departed"
Clint Eastwood, "Letters From Iwo Jima"
Stephen Frears, "The Queen"
Paul Greengrass, "United 93"

I’m going with Scorsese here. Not because I think the movie is any good but rather because this guy has been nominated and lost so many times for way better movies that he deserves to finally take home the gold.

Best Foreign Language Film
"After the Wedding" Denmark
"Days of Glory (Indigenes)" Algeria
"The Lives of Others" Germany
"Pan's Labyrinth" Mexico
"Water" Canada

How do you spell Canada? C, eh, n, eh, d, eh. Go Canada!! (Like there was ever any doubt about the way this one was going to go.)

Best Adapted Screenplay
Sacha Baron Cohen and Anthony Hines and Peter Baynham and Dan Mazer and Todd Phillips, "Borat Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan"
Alfonso Cuaron and Timothy J. Sexton and David Arata and Mark Fergus and Hawk Ostby, "Children of Men"
William Monahan, "The Departed"
Todd Field and Tom Perrotta, "Little Children"
Patrick Marber, "Notes on a Scandal"

I don’t care who wins this one as long as “Borat” loses. Please it took FIVE people to write that drivel?

So that’s my rundown of a few of the Oscar categories this year. We will, I’m sure, have a wrap up for the outfits, winners, and losers after the show in February. But until then, who are your picks? What do you think was the best movie of the year? And most importantly… Which of these movies should I waste Hubby’s hard earned dollars to see?

More Birthdays!

Happy Still-Going-On-29 Birthday, Daddy!!!!

I hope I didn't wake you up when I called this morning.

Birthday Time!

Happy Birthday, Aunt B!!!!

It's Mythbusting Time

Since arriving in Nairobi, Hubby and I have discovered a new program for which to build small shrines and center our lives around. The most surprising part, for those of you who know us well, is that the new show isn’t one of our typical WB or Fox mind melters. Which is not to say that we aren’t keeping up with the latest seasons of “The OC” and “Gilmore Girls” but rather that our hearts have been stolen by the Discovery Channel.

Yes, you read that last part correctly: we are obsessed with a show from the Discovery Channel and aren’t ashamed to scream it from the highest heights or blog about it on the Internet. We discovered (if you’ll pardon the pun) our new sweetheart by accident and now find ourselves rushing home from dinner or the bar so that we can catch the latest three-year-old episode of this especially amusing and enlightening program.

I’m guessing that by now you’ve either guessed which show (Bravo!) or are wondering what the heck I’m talking about. As the smarties in the bunch could tell you, I’m talking about “Mythbusters,” which stars Adam Savage and Jamie Hyneman, two special effects geeks turned TV busters. These guys are so cool they've even appeared in the Marvel Comic X23!

Those of you who have seen the show know that while the science behind the show is spot on and regularly enlightening, the hosts themselves are what keep the fans coming back week after week. Adam and Jamie have an on screen chemistry that hovers somewhere between brotherly tolerance and sincere mutual dislike. Hubby does an amazingly amusing and spot-on impression of the senior buster, Jamie, that has become slightly annoying through repetition but he tells me is still cute. Adam and Jamie aside, the real star of the show would have to be Buster – the much maligned crash test dummy who tests all of the more deadly and injury inducing myths. That poor Dummy seriously needs to fire his agent!

But you’re probably wondering who does all the work on the show. Well that would be the Junior Mythbusters – or, as Hubby likes to refer to them: Kari and a bunch of other people who aren’t as hot as Kari. Do I even need to mention that she’s a (dyed) redhead (Hubby note: dude, does that matter??)? Silly cute but predictable boys.

Now that you’ve met the team, I’ll have to explain exactly what Mythbusting is. The team takes urban myths and legends and tries to disprove them using (semi) sound science. Last night’s episode, for example, involved exploding jaw breakers (confirmed), exploding PVC piping (busted), and deadly playing cards (busted). They tested the myths using various homemade gadgets, which included a literal iron jaw, a giant iron static ball, and a super-human, mechanical card tosser. Name an urban myth and they’ve probably attempted to bust it: from escaping from Alcatraz (plausible) and dying in quicksand (busted) to Archimedes death ray (busted) or the best way to cool a six-pack of beer (You’ll have to come over for a party to find out the answer to this one!).

This show seriously redefines fun and cool. Plus, for those us stuck in Kenya and wishing they were back in California, it gives them a little piece of home. Mythbusters, much like our earlier World Strong Man obsession is a very, very good thing. Plus its edu-ma-cation-al!

Bring on the Trans Fats!

Well the Ooga Chucka baby has officially vacated our Nairobi apartment. (Sorry mum!)

Reading this article on Yahoo over the weekend a sudden craving for a double cheeseburger from Harvey's, and maybe some Zesty Doritos or even some Hostess Twinkies.

Bon Appetit!

Eating Trans Fats May Increase Infertility Risk
By Anne Harding Thu Jan 18, 6:47 PM ET

NEW YORK (Reuters Health) - Women who want to get pregnant may want to stay away from fast food French fries not just to avoid putting on some extra pounds, a new study shows.
ADVERTISEMENT

The more trans fats a woman eats, the more likely she is to be infertile, Dr. Jorge E. Chavarro of the Harvard School of Public Health in Boston and colleagues found.

Trans fats are found in fried foods, packaged snacks, commercial baked goods and other sources, and are known to increase the risk of heart disease and diabetes. "Even for somebody who's not trying to get pregnant, it is a very good idea to stay away from them," Chavarro told Reuters Health.

Trans fats can interfere with the activity of a cell receptor involved in inflammation, glucose metabolism and insulin sensitivity, Chavarro and his team note in the American Journal of Clinical Nutrition. Drugs that activate the receptor have been shown to improve fertility in women with a condition known as polycystic ovary syndrome.

To investigate how trans fat consumption might affect fertility, the researchers analyzed data from 18,555 healthy women participating in the Nurses' Health Study. All were married and trying to get pregnant between 1991 and 1999.

For every 2 percent increase in the amount of calories a woman got from trans fats instead of carbohydrates, the researchers found, her risk of infertility increased by 73 percent. The risk rose by 79 percent for every 2 percent of energy in trans fats if they replaced omega-6 polyunsaturated fats. And for every 2 percent of calories derived from trans fats instead of monounsaturated fats, the risk of infertility more than doubled.

For a woman eating 1,800 calories a day, 2 percent of energy intake in trans fats equals 4 grams, Chavarro noted. "It's not very hard to get 4 grams of trans fatty acids every day," he said. "It's really a small amount of trans fatty acids that we observe having a significant effect on infertility."

The Food and Drug Administration now requires manufacturers to state on their label if a food contains a half gram of trans fat per serving or more, Chavarro noted, but foods with less than a half gram are allowed to claim that they have zero grams of trans fat. To cut trans fats out of the diet completely, he added, people should avoid all foods that list hydrogenated or partially hydrogenated oils in their ingredients.

SOURCE: American Journal of Clinical Nutrition, January 2006.

Lazy Sunday

I’m sure that most of you observant and brilliant Devoted Readers have noticed that my tour of our Seychellois vacation ended rather abruptly with a few days left. I haven’t yet told you about Hubby’s brilliant golf playing at the world famous Seychelles Golf Club. I think he may have even set a course record during his time on the links. (Of course the record is for accidentally throwing your club further than you hit the ball, but hey, it’s still a record!)

Nor have I gotten around to telling you about the great supermarkets where you can buy a tube of Pringles for the low, low price of just US$7.50. Of course, if you head to the hypermarket before you break your daily fast, you could head down the cereal bargain aisle and pick up a box of US$6 generic Rice Crispies or US$10 Special K. Oh, you mean you didn’t want to have to sell your first born to eat on the island? In that case we’ll head for the ocean.

Our second day on the sea was much more enjoyable than our sea-sickening first. Hubby jumped in the water at the first opportunity to test out his new snorkeling gear and had to be dragged back in the boat for lunch. The catamaran took us around the smaller islands closer to Mahé (including Typ0 island: It’s the one now claimed by me in the middle… passport and visa information for visitors to come in a future blog) and we enjoyed the time and opportunity to enjoy the sun (appropriately drenched in SPF50) and leisurely meet our fellow travelers from Denmark, South Africa, Poland, and Britain. We tried explaining where we were from but eventually gave up and started simply agreeing with whatever designation was guessed with a smile, a shrug, and a polite response of, “Sort of.”

The truth of the matter is that I stopped sharing our Seychelles vacation details not because it wasn’t a great vacation – it most certainly was – but because I got bored of writing about the same topic day after day after day. I wrote about other things for a few days and was peer pressured by Hubby into finishing up the holiday logs.

Interestingly, Dobhi Wallah (aka Queen E) is currently in the Seychelles (or on her way there, I’m not sure which) and will soon be visiting your favorite blogger B!tch here in Nairobi in just a few weeks. I have been busily preparing for our first visitor by… um… Well, I haven’t been preparing really. But I will! Eventually…

In fact, I think it may be time to stop drinking cider, blogging and watching the World Series of Poker. After all it’s the middle of the afternoon so it’s probably time to get dressed and face the day. Eventually…

Literacy of the Damned

Being without the Internet was both a blessing and a curse. The curse, obviously, was that I was separated from you, my Beloved and Devoted Readers. And while I won’t admit to any addiction (be they alcoholic or internet-ic), I must admit that the forced weaning of my fingers from the keyboard of my Mac was not an altogether bad thing.

Of course, what good is the cure of your “aholism” of choice, if it doesn’t leave something better in its wake? You see, in the last few months I have rediscovered the arcane form of entertainment known as “reading.” That, naturally, required buying books en masse during all those long, internet-free hours. Some came via Amazon.uk (not a bad option if you have a large order in mind) and other random jaunts to Toronto and India. Anyway you crunch the numbers, however, literacy is expensive drug.

Hubby, narrow minded git that he is, will tell you that some (or as he claims all) of what I read wouldn’t count toward the literacy of a rabbit let alone a grown woman with a pricey book habit. I freely admit that I like a good trashy romance as much as the next girl. The links to the right of this entry are proof enough of that KISA addiction. Nor do I apologize to anyone for enjoying a good Happily Ever After in this Unhappily Ever Is that we live in. Hubby believes that these books have given me false expectations of the real world. But hey, that’s why I’m the blogging freak and he’s the one at work… working.

But this episode of blog isn’t about those books. I’m not sure if maybe I’m maturing or god forbid growing up but I’ve been leaning less toward my romances of late and more in the direction of books that my parents would actually not make me hide when we had company. The problem is that I haven’t exactly been happy with all the heroes or authors in these new tomes. Knights in Shining Armor they were not. Examples? Well if you insist…

Before I left for Toronto, I ordered a copy of Bill Buford’s new book, “Heat.” Even though it arrived only after I had departed on my much-needed vacation, I eagerly tore into it shortly upon my arrival back in Kenya. I was thrilled to have the book in my hot little hands as one of the memoir’s central figures is my Food Network hero of Italian food, Mario Batali. Molto Mario’s cookbooks have been a constant source of inspiration in the Typ0/Hubby kitchens. Some of you may even have enjoyed what we have dubbed “Mario Sauce,” a menu staple in our house that was inspired by one of his recipes.

After reading “Heat,” however, the warm clog-orange glow has worn off of Mario in favor of a more honest semi-respect for his business know-how and chef derring-do. But what really bothered me most about the book was Buford himself and what I perceived as a serious lack of integrity.

You see, at one point in his Italian journey, Bill heads off to Italy to learn the art of Italian cooking from experts and folks who so long ago taught Mario himself. The time spent there was engrossing to read about and kept me at the edge of my kitchen counter seat. At one point in this journey of discovery, he meets Betta and over the course of much time (and pages), convinces her to teach him her special tortellini recipe. She naively agrees but on one condition – He can NEVER EVER, EVER share her secrets with Mario for whom she has little respect or, it seems at times, even liking. After the chef equivalent of a pinky swear Betta begins Bill’s tutelage.

Her teachings are recorded in his book ingredient-by-ingredient, process-by-process. Buford kept his promise not to tell Mario and instead published all of Betta’s secrets in a million-copy best seller. What a great guy. I would someday like to hear his defense of his broken promise and Betta’s reply.

(For the sake of full disclosure, I will note here that I really loved the book and it was well worth even its rather steep hardcover price. It was well written and kept me intrigued almost the entire way through. Cooking fans, Food Network fans, and fans of good writing would all enjoy this book. Betta, however, might not.)

A month ago, I finished reading “Memoirs of a Geisha” by Arthur Golden. Recommended to me by Princess MK along with the other awesomely good book “The Secret Life of Bees” by Sue Monk Kidd, I was eager to dig into this popular book which was turned into (from what I’ve heard) a fairly decent movie. I enjoyed “Geisha” as I
read it in Delhi and on the plane back to Nairobi in December. My enjoyment of the heroine (seemingly well-written by a guy, it should be noted) ended abruptly as the book’s final chapters drew the book in its inevitable downward spiral of woman-hating.

A tragic hero that is blessed with neither good looks nor tremendous disposition befriends, saves and loves our Geisha. She, naturally, sees him as just a friend. In fact, not only does she not love him but is also deeply infatuated with his best friend and boss. So, to thank him for everything the hero has done to help her, she stabs him in the back. I almost didn’t finish the book because I didn’t want her to have her HEA.

I have other reviews and books to share with you like “Shantaram” and “Glass Castle” and the porn-light brilliance of JR Ward, but I’ll leave those for another day and another episode of blog.

Now I turn to you, Dearest Reader, to share with me any good book or authors to be found on your “keeper” shelves. I’m running out of books that need to be devoured and am slowly coming face to face with the stack of those that I purchased in haste and am now doomed to read. So please save me and feed my literacy addiction.

History is a novel that has been lived,
a novel is history that could have been.
- E & J de Goncourt

A Midwinter Day’s Dream

I had this dream once where I was flying. To be honest, I have dreams like this quite often. Not flying like Superman or anything, but more gliding on a cushion of air. I could push a cart and be floating up just as high as the top of the wheels so no one would notice. Or be up in a tree and suddenly be flying over my neighborhood from treetop to the tops of the power lines and back again, all the while taking in everything beneath me like I was in a movie panning over the scene.

Other times I would dream that I was naked. The odd thing was that I’d never realize it until it was too late and I was in public somewhere. And, of course, since it was a dream, I always had a really hot body to cover up with whatever was at hand in dreamland.

Before we moved overseas, I would frequently have dreams where I was in the passenger seat of a car and being told to drive. I’d lean over and try to steer and reach the pedals of an already moving vehicle and wonder why the steering wheel was on the wrong side or why I was on the wrong side. As luck would have it, I was on the right side of the car, just a few years too early.

The oddest dreams are those that bring back names and faces from the past. Boys I haven’t seen since I was 13 and friends I barely knew for fifteen minutes when I knew them fifteen years ago. I always wonder if dreams like that are trying to tell me to look these people up for a reason. Did something happen to them that I should know about? Or maybe something was triggered by hearing a name similar to theirs in passing while I was watching TV that day.

I’m a big one for wondering what dreams really mean. I think it’s because I tend to dream in big shiny Technicolor. Hubby never remembers his dreams but mine are so vivid they often seem real. Are they snippets of what may have been? Or what will someday be? Or, as some stick in the muds think, nothing at all: just pictures behind my closed, blinking eyelids that no one else can see.

Or maybe, just maybe, this whole thing we call life is just one big long dream. Some of it good, some of it long, horrible and rather nightmare-ish. A friend of mine in high school had a theory that we were all just players in a big holodeck of each other’s lives. As soon as we left the scene, we disappeared.

A dream. A scene on Captain Picard’s holodeck. Either way I think it’s time for a nap and maybe perchance to dream.

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream…

Ooga Chucka

I discovered some wonderfully amazing baby news last night. You may recall back in June I gave a shout out to my bud Care Bear for getting herself knocked up by her wonderful husband, Cubby.

Well the blessed event is here and my Toronto Babe now has her very own too adorable for words Baby Bear. *sniff*

Congrats sweetie! You guys done good. Baby Bear is too sweet and cute for words!!

I do not have maternal feelings. I am not seeing the “Ally McBeal” dancing baby in my living room. I do not want kids.

(Did anyone buy any of that last paragraph?

Oh.

Dammit!)

Temporary Reprieves

Despite previously made plans to attend a tour of Île aux Cerfs, the tour operators kindly gave one day away from boats and water to spend as land-locked as possible. The horror of boating would return full force on Friday but at least for this one day, I could attempt to forget that the only way to visit the neighboring islands was by ship.

The first top on our Day Away From Water Tour was a fabulous pizza place in Victoria called Sam’s. Due to our remarkably late start to the day, the restaurant had actually stopped serving lunch by the time we arrived. After a few pitiful looks and pleadings on our part, they took pity on us and agreed to let us be the absolute last seating of the afternoon. Our extra pathetic looks were not for naught, for lunch, as promised by the guidebook, was trés tasty.

Properly satiated with rum punch and pizza (Hold on. That sounds oddly familiar…) we headed “a wee bit” down the road to the Botanical Gardens. Three miles later, we were granted access the incredibly picturesque grounds free of charge due the late hour. Here, rather than the typical slather of sunscreen we applied a coat (or six) of mosquito repellent.

It should be noted at this juncture that whilst Hubby was sunburned from our holiday, I spent the whole week as a walking 12-course mosquito meal. Bitten from ankle to cheekbone, I spent more time rubbing my back against itch easing doorways than can be considered either reasonable or polite. The Botanical Gardens are a known ‘skeeter hangout and I was not going to be caught out (like I had on every other day of our vacation). That said, it was here that I obtained my highly attractive cheekbone bite. Lucky, tasty me! Or something…

Bloodsuckers aside, the gardens were gorgeous. They boasted all sorts of local flora and fauna including several varieties that we were unable to identify. Although free of wildlife of the four-legged variety there was an abundance of birds to enjoy. There were several amateur ornithologists there with us who seemed thrilled every time an overhead branch so much as quivered.

Then, of course, there was the wildlife of the two-legged variety that were busy throwing a rather loud party in the covered café at the top of the swampy portion of the park. Luckily, they didn’t inhibit our enjoyment of the area and even helped to provide a groovy soundtrack to our afternoon. The birders were a little less impressed as the music seemed to have scared away several varieties of birds that were known to call the Gardens home.

Dinner that evening was at La Scala near Beau Vallon. Restaurants in the Seychelles come in two varieties: inexpensive and inedible; and expensive and exquisite. La Scala was definitely part of the latter grouping. This was one of those places where women receive a menu devoid of prices so that their dates can faint away when they innocently order veal or lobster not realizing the wallet-shocking price. The homemade pasta melts in your mouth but leaves you with just enough room for one of the devilishly delightful desserts. The best part of an evening at La Scala, should you ever find yourself there, is the view of the waves crashing against the shore in the fading light.

As our rather cool taxi driver drove us home we snuggled together and I tried to forget the horrors that would be waiting for me come the dawn. Hubby insisted that the catamaran would be gentler on my landlubber stomach than yesterday’s wave hopping vessel. In the meantime, I was more than willing to fall into our bed and dream of having teleportation skills that would never require me to board a boat ever again.

Water 2 - Typ0 0

Wednesday was a day I would much, much, much rather forget for the rest of my life. Wednesday, you see, was the day that we took a boat ride from Mahé to La Digue and then onto Praslin and back home to Mahé. Or, as I remember it, the day I discovered that I was *not* a pirate or any other sort of sea faring person in a previous life. Allowing for some pleasurable stops in between, the torturous sojourns aboard the ship overshadowed the rest of the day…

As I mentioned in my previous blog, the rainy season was upon us in the Seychelles when we arrived on Christmas Eve. Typically, though, the rain comes in short, sweet bursts, so the rain we experienced yesterday was a bit unusual. The rain that had amused us the night before with its fork lightning had created rough seas by the next morning. This naturally coincided with our planned tour to the islands of Praslin and La Digue.
Praslin and La Digue are the second and third largest islands of the Seychelles after Mahé and are approximately 20 minutes away via helicopter or an hour and half away by boat. A very long hour and half.

Our tour consisted of about 30 people in total; about 12 of whom were seasick on the way to La Digue that morning. Sadly and pukingly, I was one of them. I am proud to say that I held out for about 45 minutes before I reached for my first little white bag. Although my practice of not eating breakfast probably contributed to that bit of will power.

When we finally arrived on La Digue everyone gladly ran off the boat and started to look around the small island which had only had motorized transportation for about 10 to 15 years. Prior to the introduction of this modern convenience, locals used ox pulled carts to get around. Of course, since ox pulled carts are kitsch and cute, they naturally kept them around to transport sea weary tourists like us.

The first stop here was a touristy coconut plantation where we learned about the big money to be made with this small male fruit. We were told that vanilla production used to be the number one industry but the abolition of slavery did away that labour intensive crop. The answer for the lazy plantation owners fell as if from the sky: coconuts. All they had to do was wait until nature said they were ripe and they fell from the trees, pick them up and enjoy their harvest. The perfect crop for lazy rich folks.

Much of the Seychellois production stock is shipped to Pakistan after firing (which preserves the meat of the fruit) where it is used to make everything from oil to butter. But nothing here goes to waste: the coconut water is consumed by the animals and the discarded shells are used to heat the kilns that fire the coconuts after harvest.

The tour guide introduced the group to the Emmanuelle house and then moved the oblivious (other than us) group onto the turtle pen. These massive ninjas-in-waiting are native to the island and were absolutely adorable. A few them even ate from the hands of one of the braver tour-goers.

Lucky for my still wobbly stomach, our morning on La Digue included a several hour rest on a lovely beach with an even lovelier cool breeze. We once again coated our skin with SPF50 and then plunked ourselves on a shady rock to enjoy the sight of our fellow tourists in their tanned, bikinied and Speedo-ed splendor. *shudder*

We spent quite a bit of time on the beach tormenting the sea crabs that seemed to jump at every sound, shadow, or stick that Hubby threw at them. The Crab People eventually became braver and inched closer to us; this resulted in Hubby experimenting in covering their house holes to see who would win Strong Man Crab Edition when the need to escape their seed covered homes arose.

Sadly, this land-locked peace was not long lived: we were told to head back to the boat so that we could head over to Praslin. You can, I’m sure, imagine how brilliantly happy I was with this news. On the plus side, at least this trip would last only 20 minutes. Twenty very long minutes.

The first stop after the horrible boat ride was a small forest. This incredibly informative walking tour was where we learned all about the famous Coco du Mer and its slightly less sexy male counterpart the coconut. Our guide pointed out other cool trees like All Spice (which I always thought was some sort of white trash mix of several other spices as opposed to one big tree) and Breadfruit trees. Cool note about the latter is that instead of being buried in coffins made of pine, the Seychellois make their coffins from the wood of the breadfruit tree. Which, of course, means that they aren’t buried in pine boxes; they are buried in breadboxes!! LOL I amuse myself. (Yes, that was your cue to laugh and agree that I’m funny.)

Lunch, which for my queasy stomach consisted of a piece of bread and a scoop of rice, was followed by more beach time. Despite the light sprinkling of rain, most people, including Hubby, went straight out into the azure blue water to splash around. This hour was only to fool us into thinking that our moments in paradise would never end. The call to board the boat back to Mahé proved that sentiment wrong.

The trip home was pretty much the worst hour and half of my life ever. I didn’t just regurgitate lunch but I think I felt several intestines make their way into the small
white bags that the boat crew kindly tossed overboard for me. In fact I kept one only slightly mocking crewman busy the entire time with that rather repetitive job.

I officially hate boats, sailing, and anything having to do with the water in general. The worst part was that we had another boat tour planned for the next day. God help me because as we docked in Mahé the thought of getting in a bus was making my stomach quake. Boarding a boat in less than 12 hours sounded about as thrilling as dinner at the Boat House. Poseidon help me!