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!

Driving Him Crazy

Due to Hubby’s crispy-style shoulders, we opted to go driving around Mahé on Boxing Day. A simple sounding plan perhaps but despite having only 100 taxis on the island there are no major car rental places to pick up the slack. After a bit of negotiating with our hotel, we managed to arrange for a slightly over priced (and empty-tanked) sedan for the day. Our plan was to spend the morning and lunch in the capital “city” of Victoria and then to drive the perimeter of the island stopping at various touristy spots that were mentioned in the guidebooks.

The POA set, we made our way 10 minutes down the road to Victoria. There isn’t much to see in the capital and the tourist shops are lacking in anything that even I, the original shopaholic, wouldn’t buy. The main two things to see in town are the clock tower (which didn’t work until 2000 as the movers dropped one of the pieces into the salt water back when it arrived in 1903) and the fish market. The latter was a source of good deals on whole nutmeg (for me) and dried lemongrass (for Hubby’s tea).

After a decent but rather bland lunch at the “famous” Pirate’s Cove we piled back into the car and, map in hand, set out on our tour of Mahé. I should note here that the entire island is rather hilly and Hubby’s ability to negotiate the inclines while shifting gears was greatly put to the test. Despite the once-award winning skills of Map Girl (aka me), we managed a few wrong turns on an island with only a handful of main roads.

The plus side of this was that the scenery made all the poor navigation worthwhile. The narrow roads (two lane my arse!) made it difficult to impossible to pull over for pictures much of the time but Hubby’s old lady-esque driving enabled us to enjoy the beauty of the Seychelles at a leisurely pace. The vistas around us were genuinely gorgeous and made the hours that day literally melt away.

After a brief shop at the Seychelles’ version of Fragonard, Creole Fleurage Parfum, we went back up into the hills for what we hoped would be another tea plantation tour. We realize that the tea tour has become a rather predictable part of our trips but we love drinking the free tea and buying discounted Citronelle tea straight from the source. Of course neither of these was possible at this plantation because we arrived too late in the day and the Evil Woman in the store refused to sell us any of Citronelle tea because it required her to stop talking on her cell phone for more than five seconds. (The Itch!)

We then headed back down the “mountain" in search of the local outdoor craft center. Once again my amazing map reading skills led us to a road famous for being the worst on the island. Or as I liked to call it “a short cut.” The good news is that, as I mentioned, there aren’t that many roads on Mahé so you can’t actually get lost even if you try.

The skies opened up just as we arrived at the craft village and didn’t ease up until early evening. We took advantage of this easing of the seasonal weather to escape back to Beau Vallon for a restaurant that all our guidebooks swore was a top pick. For the record: they lied. The Boat House was described as a seafood buffet but was more of a tuna buffet. *shudderblech*

There were only two high points to the entire fetid meal; the first of which was the coconut couscous that turned out to be a local specialty. Coconuts, as you may recall, are plentiful here and the locals have discovered numerous yummy ways to use them: from fermenting them into potent rums to using the meat to season a normally boring dish and transform it into a memorable meal.

In case you’re wondering what the second high point of the meal was… It was paying the bill (where we did actually fare well with the Euro exchange rate) and getting to leave.

Just as we pulled into the Wharf, it began to pour once again only this time it didn’t let up until long after we were asleep. This, as I was soon to discover, was a bad omen for our boat trip to La Digue and Praslin the next day. A very bad omen.

Blog: The PG13 Edition

Before I can tell you about our day of driving around, the cuteness of sand crabs, or why boats are the work of the devil, I need to acquaint you with the number one obsession that surrounds the islands of the Seychelles: SEX. I’m not talking simply about horny teens checking out the skanky topless Euro-trash cougars either. Sex is a fully pervasive theme that you can’t escape anywhere or on any tour.

It starts when you check into your room and observe the artwork. This painting and one just like it were directly in front of our bed. To the left of our sleeping area were two of a similar if slightly more male theme.


The Seychelles are famous for two things above all else. This is one of them:


Called a Coco du Mer it is the “female” coconut and was first found on the island of Praslin and basically only grows naturally in the Seychelles. (I’ll be sharing more about these cool fruit in a later issue.) The Coco du Mer is sold whole (although real ones cost about $400US and weigh upwards of 20 pounds), in miniature carved form (think key chains and earrings), and is even used to denote the women’s washrooms in some restaurants.

In case you’re wondering what they use for the boy’s washrooms…


This is the stem of the "male" coconut that we are all familiar with in the Real World. Basically, they grow on these stems up in the trees before they fall to the ground. Like I said, this is a sex-obsessed nation.

The second thing that the Seychelles is famous for is… well… a porn (or as Hubby edited: a soft-core, erotic love story) movie. They are seriously proud of this fact and advertise it during tours and in guidebooks. The movie “Goodbye Emmanuelle” was filmed here on the island of La Digue several years ago in this house.


The structure is now owned by the Seychellois government and is used to house famous political visitors that, we were told, include Prime Minister Tony Blair.

Finally, in case on your trip through the Seychelles you had managed to block out the Coco du Mer, art work, male coconut stems and the nasty topless sunbathers… I give you the turtles.


In case you can’t quite figure out what’s going on here (and well, that would be really sad) Dude Turtle is having a “good time” with She-Urtle and Loser Turtle, who showed up too late, is waiting his turn.

So now that you’ve seen the real wonders of the Seychelles, I’m pretty sure you can understand why we enjoyed it so much! Rowl!

A Very Beachy Christmas

Our early pre-morning wake-up call not withstanding, our first night’s sleep in the Seychelles was a peaceful one and we awoke to a sun drenched Christmas morning. After rifling through all the goodies that Santa had left for us we prepared for a traditional Seychellois Christmas on the beach.

A light continental breakfast later, Hubby and I piled into a taxi and headed for Beau Vallon in the north part of the island. Beau Vallon is a great hub of people, hotels, and restaurants and is probably the area we would stay on our next visit. All the beaches in the Seychelles are essentially public and don’t belong to any one hotel no matter their proximity to the key sunning spots. This in mind, we wandered down the beach and found a nicely shaded spot only a few feet from the salty ocean. Hubby kindly snuck into the closest hotel and procured a chaise lounge for me to perch upon.

Our first order of business was to slather SPF 30 sunscreen all over our carefully cultivated pasty selves. As we did so we looked around at the highly tanned (and often burned) Europeans lying on the sunny beach around us. While it is highly probable that we simply missed it, it appeared that we were some of the only people on the beach who concerned themselves with sunscreen application of any kind. Our fresh arrival on the island was highlighted whenever bare-chested Hubby would stand near anyone else and his neon whiteness shone like a healthfully pale beacon.

One last comment on the sunburned Europeans… When Hubby and I rule the world there will be an official embargo on Speedos. *shudder* Good god, why do fat 50 year olds think they look sexy in a tiny piece of material that does NOT cover their boys. *shudder*

Back to the blog… Suitably attired in surf shorts and plenty of sunscreen, Hubby ran directly for the water while I settled onto my chaise lounge and started to Soduku. After having whizzed through several “difficult” puzzles, I joined Hubby in the water and was rewarded for this marital devotion by being dunked under the warm salty water several times.

Hubby spent more time playing in the waves in Beau Vallon than he spent on shore and it was only with some reluctance that he finally joined me on the beach and got dressed for dinner. It was then that I noticed the somewhat pinkish colour on his shoulders. I dismissed this rose coloured vision since I knew we had almost emptied the bottle of sunscreen that day with multiple applications.

We wandered down the beach to the Le Meriden Hotel for dinner. We had read in our guidebooks that this rather pricey hotel had good restaurants (and bars as we soon discovered) and made reservations quickly. The maitre-d’ seemed less than pleased to hear that non-hotel-residents were trying to eat in his restaurant but we smiled innocently and bid him a Joyeux Noël. (I mentioned that the Seychelles is a French/Creole speaking country, right?) Our dinner that night, while not free, was very tasty.

After an incredible thirty-minute wait for a taxi back to our hotel (about 20 minutes away) we finally arrived back to our hotel home away from home. It was there that we discovered that Hubby’s “pink” shoulders were actually lobster red as was much of the top of his back. It turned out that the sunscreen we were using wasn’t actually waterproof (despite its claims on the label: damn boutique-y brands!) and every time he went back into the water he washed off his protection. The funniest part (if I may admit there was a funny part) was that the redness ended right along the water line where he would stand-up to wave at me. I should admit here that I too was slightly pink along my nose and cheeks despite having applied sunscreen vigorously all day. We quickly agreed to start using the SPF 50 the next day.

Of course, if we were burned and we actually tried to protect ourselves what did those Europeans who purposely placed themselves directly in the sun’s rays without sunscreen look like?! Great! Next time we went to the beach we’d have to deal with lobsters wearing Speedos. If that thought doesn’t give you nightmares then I don’t know what will. *shudder*

Seashells in the Seychelles

As I mentioned in my previous post, Hubby and I spent the week of Christmas in the Seychelles and it was heavenly…

Christmas Eve morning arrived sooner than I had either wanted or expected. Before I knew it, Hubby was creaking down the spiral stairs and calling out that our taxi to the airport would arrive in twenty minutes. My first thoughts were about how much I hated mornings, morning people, anything in general that required me to awake before at least 8:30 a.m. That, of course, is when I remembered that it was finally the day of the trip! Agreeing to wake up early today meant that I got to go to the Seychelles. With that sunny thought in mind, I crawled out of bed with something that vaguely resembled enthusiasm. Or at least with as much enthusiasm as I could muster two hours before dawn.


One of the nice things about this destination choice for the holidays is that the Seychelles is only three hours away from Nairobi by air. If you inclined to look it up in your atlas, the 115 islands that make up the Seychelles are located in the Indian Ocean vaguely near Madagascar. To continue on the nerdy info-theme, the total landmass of the islands is less than 460 square kilometers. To put that into perspective, Hubby and I drove the perimeter of the main island of Mahé and crisscrossed it three or four times all in about a half a day. (And it only took that long because, as you know, darling Hubby drives like and old woman.) But more about that day of driving and puttering around on another episode of Blog.

We arrived in Mahé with little fanfare (and only slightly late due to flight delays) and made our way to our hotel, the Wharf. The hotel and private marina were well maintained if somewhat out of the way from the rest of the island and its attractions. That said, our room was brilliantly air conditioned (to the point of being chilly), generously sized, and had a rain shower. (Dude!!) Naturally, since this is us we’re talking about there was no hot water in said rain shower but the excessive heat and humidity made hot water a rather torturous thought most days.

We settled into our room and headed down to the bar (Shocking huh?) where we eased ourselves into Seychellois life by sipping beer and margaritas. A light lunch was interrupted only by requests for more beverages and the need to reserve a table for the “gala” dinner that was planned for that evening.

The surprisingly good dinner of soup, turkey with all the trimmings, and dessert was marred only by the dreadful humidity that hung in the air. Because of said heat the cold amuse bouche and lemongrass sorbet courses were among everyone’s favorites. That said, even Hubby who is by no means a huge turkey fan, loved the dinner and was still raving about it several days later.

It was with slightly intoxicated heads (induced by locally made after-dinner liqueurs) and full stomachs that we ended our first day on the island of Mahé in the Seychelles. We crowded under the warm, white duvet and closed our eyes content in the knowledge that we had been good little expats this year and so Santa was sure to visit us during the night.

That’s when it happened.

All of a sudden (around 3 or 4 a.m.) there arose such a clatter that I sprang from my pillow and told Hubby to answer the dang phone! The urgent life or death event on the end? It was my beloved parents calling to wish us a happy Christmas.

Let this be a lesson to you children of the world who, like me, enjoy tormenting their parents by calling them on every holiday in the middle of the night. Payback will come and it will be vicious and mocking and said previously besieged parents will enjoy waking you from your innocent and peaceful slumber.

Of course, that payback thing works both ways. Muhahahahahahahahahah!!

New Resolutions

Happy belated New Year to all of my wonderful and Devoted Readers!

After many, many months of living Internet-free the gods have looked kindly upon this lonely Typ0 and given me the gift of Internet. I know that I haven’t posted regularly since September but I am giving you my word that the horrible lack of blogging is about to change.

In the near future I will be blogging about my trip to the Seychelles, why clouds are cool, and how Bill Buford is a big liar. Once I’ve covered those long existing (aka mostly pre-written) topics, I will move onto such interesting thoughts as a future trip to Ethiopia, life in Kenya now that I have a home, and I will even be sharing pictures of finished knitting projects. (Seriously, I have one or two done and some on their way to completion… sort of.)

I’m sorry for abandoning you to a sad and boring life that lacked your daily dose of Blog. (As Eminem once wisely said: ‘Cause it feels so empty without me!) Doctor Hubby and I are now back and ready to share our twisted views with you once again.

Let the good times roll!

Happy Birthday, Hubby

Happy Birthday to my wonderful Hubby.
Today he turns 35
And is officially OVER THE HILL.

(I guess that means that I like elderly men.)

The Iron Age

As I mentioned a previous blog, I was recently faced with the prospect of having to iron some of Hubby’s shirts myself. It was that or volunteer to fork over an obscene amount of money and admit to my own ineptitude. After much discussion betwixt Hubby and myself regarding my innate laziness, the cost of dry cleaning in Nai-Robbery, and the glory of dress shirts that don’t require feats of domesticity, I relented and went in search of the iron.

Now that may not seem like a big deal to some of you who have ironed more than 2 shirts in your lifetime, but to me this was a BIG step. Even Hubby at this juncture in our lives together had ironed more shirts than I. (Proof of his accomplishments can be found in the acknowledgement section of his Master’s Thesis, which gives a shout-out, and high-five to our friend the King of Kraft for instructing Hubby in this most complicated of chores.) My story; however, is slightly sadder (although I too received a shout out in the same acknowledgements, thank you), or, as Hubby would point (and he often does) slightly more pathetic.

Our tale begins not with my eager child-self ironing my dad’s hankies (which I did with a rather impressive display of skill, if memory serves) but later at my wedding shower. On that fine afternoon at Care Bear’s house I received not one but two irons. (Ahem! It is simply not that difficult to update a registry. Sheesh!) Everyone giggled at joked about all the ironing I would be doing for my once and future husband. And here I thought that the guests all knew me. But I digress… I won’t say here that I returned one of the irons for fear that the lovely gift-giver might find out, but… Well, I hardly needed two of them, after all.

Several months passed and I included the still boxed Black and Decker iron into my UHaul shipment for its long ride from Canuckville to Yankee Town. There it sat (out of its box) on a shelf in the laundry room for quite some time. The ironing board, you see, was being used as a hall table and couldn’t be spared for anything as trivial as wrinkle-free clothing.

One day about two years or so after our move, my friend Hershey came to work in a bit of a tizzy. It turned out that her iron had puffed its final breath of steam that morning and had gone to that big Ironing Board in the Sky. Hershey was rather beside herself as she didn’t want to come to work each morning in creased clothes.

“I have one you can use while you look for a new one,” I piped up cheerfully.

“Won’t you need it?” she called over the cubicle wall.

I walked around to her desk and let her peruse my somewhat crumpled outfit. “Oh.”

“Exactly. I’ll bring it in for you tomorrow. Keep it as long as you need.”

A year or so passed and I received my orders to move from DC to the Midwest. As a going away gift, Hershey presented me with an iron I could now tell my mother (without lying) had been well used.

Three years in the Midwest did not boast much action for our shelf-confined friend. At this point we had abandoned all pretense and had not even bothered with buying an ironing board. The good news (unless you were the sweet and wonderful person who kindly and thoughtfully bought me this gift which I truly and sincerely appreciated) was that I sold it for $10 before we moved to India.

It was that wonderful country that Hubby and I reveled in the joys of cheap door-to-door service dry-cleaning. But all good things, I’ve heard it told, must come to an end and we left that dry cleaning heaven for Nairobi. Which brings us, my friends, to that fateful moment when I had to figure out how to fill, turn on and use our new Black and Decker iron.

Savant that I am, those hurdles were overcome with only a minimal amount of cursing. Approximately an hour and a half later I presented my empty apartment with the fruits of my labor: five (more or less) perfectly ironed dress shirts!!

This story does have a happy ending for both our lonely iron and, more importantly, me. I am happy to report that pressing our laundry will be one of the jobs that the new maid will takeover in December. THANK GOD!

Why She Ate a Fly

The following comes to us from Extra-Special Guest Blogger Queen E who wrote this shortly after serenading her saintly husband and your favorite blogger (me) with a song about an old woman who ate a fly but no one knew why.

Queen E enters Typ0’s blog.

If ever you should attend a pub quiz, or for that matter any quiz where you need a team name, then surely you should always use this name: “Norfolk Enway.” When said aloud, to the right mentality of peoples, a few titters will be heard. No doubt Typ0 will titter the loudest!

Thank you,

Queen E

PS1: DO NOT SAY IN STUPID AMERICAN ACCENT.

PS2: Typ0 will laugh five minutes after everyone, as she is stupid.

Choco This

Saturday dawned oppressively in our newly settled Claridges suite. Despite having been reunited for only a few hours, Hubby was back to work for a daylong conference in Pusa. The duvet-covered, king-sized bed was cold comfort as he left for day of… well… whatever it is he actually does all day.

Hours passed as I chatted on the phone, watched Power Rangers and plowed through my current literary tome: “The Historian.” After passing a half hour under the pleasantly brutal pounding of the scalding shower I decided to face the day. It was, after all, almost 2 p.m.

I played with lunch venues in my mind, trying to determine the perfect culinary destination. That was when the PMS hit me with a gunshot of clarity. There was only choice here: Choko La. It was finally time for my Delhi chocolate fix.

After a quick taxi ride (150 rps) to Basant Lok, I tormented myself with temporary denial and prowled the local bookshops before finally giving into the addict-like pangs that were wracking my body. I ducked down the alley in front of me and ignored the large Sony store to my left. The familiar orange awning before me was all that mattered.

I gave the menu only the barest of glances and ordered a plate of mini bruchetta and a steaming cup of Papua. This rich nectar of the hot chocolate gods danced past my tongue and into each chocolate deprived cell of my body. This, I was certain, was what true nirvana was like.

I will now share with you what I wrote to Hubby via test message upon my first sip of this familiar ambrosia:

“This is truly the finest hot choco in all of Christendom. Sweet heaven this is reason enough to live in this hell town.”

I realize, Dearest Readers, that many of you will never know this ecstasy of chocolate perfection and for that I pity you. For those of you share my joyous knowledge, I can only say this: we are the lucky few who have tasted heaven and returned to share the tale with the mere mortals who will never know the perfection of chocolate truth.

Twisted Minds

When we lived in Delhi my Friday mornings, as I have mentioned previously, were often spent in Gurgaon at the home of one of the ladies of Twisted Thread: a craft group. Several of the women cross-stitch, I knitted, and still others worked on various projects like patchwork or sewing. What we all seemed to have in common was that we were all women who were rather twisted. Mentally that is.

The greatest evidence of this mutual insanity may be that they let me into the group in the first place. Exhibit B would be that they were often brave enough to be seen with yours truly in public for lunch after our industrious work at Craft Group. Luckily for me that bravely and craziness hasn’t changed much since I left back in June.

On Friday the group changed its usual venue and gathered in Delhi at Princess MK’s house. The group arrived at the usual 10 a.m. with a promptness and comfortable familiarity that made me feel as if I had never left. Some of the regulars like Queen E, who was busy painting sets (an endeavor from which I was busy playing hooky), were unable to join us. On this particular Friday, our klatch consisted of myself and the Princess, the Ladies J, Doc Quilt, and Crafty C.

Discussions were underway about where we would spend our well-earned lunch hour when C’s phone suddenly rang. The voice at the other end of the line spoke rushed Hindi to which C, in her very proper British accent, replied that she didn’t speak Hindi and that they had the wrong number. The call was one that we had all received at some point or other. It seemed; however, that C had better than average skills at convincing people of their lack of dialing success as her phone continued to lay silent for several minutes.

Just as we were about to give up the wrong number discussion the Newest Lady J pulled out her now ringing phone. There was a similar urgent Hindi message on the other end to which Lady J politely replied before hanging up. About thirty seconds later the phone rang again and, shockingly, it was the same person.

That, Dearest Reader, is how the mayhem and laughter began.

Lady J’s phone sang out a third time and was welcomed with a communal groan as we all shook our heads at this guy’s inability to take a hint. This time; however, Lady J had a trick up her sleeve.

“Hola! Cómo éstas?” The one one-sided, now Spanish, conversation, continued in this vein with the non-Spanish speaking and frustrated Indian on the other side being the one to hang up. We all laughed and applauded Lady J’s ingenuity. The group also agreed that this was the best and soon to be official way to get rid of the wrong number callers. Our gaiety was, naturally, stopped short when the phone rang again a few minutes later.

Deciding that it was now my turn to torment a local, I had Lady J throw me her phone. Grinning, I answered it with my most nails-on-a-chalkboard-inducing Quebecois accent. “Bonjour! Comment je peux vous aider? Parlez-vous français?” The ladies cackled gleefully and then triumphantly when our erstwhile caller finally gave up the ghost.

Our rather anilingual room quickly realized that we had no more languages among us in case our friend called back. This led to a litany of accents and voices worthy of a Saturday-morning cartoon that we could use in lieu of language torture. In deference to the Christmas album that Princess had been playing, I offered to be Alvin complete with helium sounding tones and demands for a new hula-hoop. Aussies, cheerleaders, southerners and others were all offered up with increasing levels of guffaws. Then brilliance struck and, thankfully, so did our phone stalker.

After Crafty C confirmed the identity of our mystery caller, Lady J took custody of her phone back. “Yo! Yo! Yo! Why you be hasslin’ my ho? You ‘bin callin’ my hizzle getting’ up in my grill? Ah’s goin’ ta cap yo ass if you keep this up! Fo shizzle!” By this time my hands were both securely clapped over my mouth to prevent any sudden giggle from bursting free.

With a final “fo shizzle my hizzle” that Snoop himself would have been impressed with, the line disconnected and the sounds of hilarity echoed as our laughter rose and we all doubled over with the combined glory of certain success with our erstwhile phone friend, and the full blooded joy of warriors who had defeated, with the mighty rapier humor, our common enemy.

Fo shizzle!

An Unconnected String of Notes

For the period of time that Hubby has been in Agra, my lovely, kind (obviously reading over my shoulder), and wonderful friend Princess MK has being playing host to me, my militia of suitcases, and Fuzz the bunny. This has been wonderful as it gave me a chance to catch up with friends without having Mr. Cheap… err… Hubby, complain about the outrageously overpriced cost of hotels here in Delhi.

During this brief sojourn at the Princess MK’s home, both Fuzz and I have been having a lovely time. Fuzz, of course, has been hanging out with M. Lapin who belongs to the Princess’s son, the Squire. I on the other hand have been jaunting off to lunches, craft groups, shopping, and enjoying all the lovely things that made Delhi a great place to live.

On Thursday, after buying several hundred dollars worth of medicine at Khan Market for about $50 USD, MK and I headed off to ACSA: aka home of the only burger made from actual beef to be found in Delhi.

As many of know (and some of you have witnessed) the Group 4 guards at the American Embassy in Delhi hate me. Sadly, I am not overstating things or exaggerating: in the past they have dropped my purse on the floor repeatedly, emptied my purse when other people walked through with hardly a glance, had me sign and then resign the book when the didn’t like my printing and several other indignities that I loathe to recall. Although I have never seen it, I often believed when we lived here, that they had my photo behind their desk at the ACSA gate and had instructions to torment me on sight.

This day; however, was different. The guards smiled and laughed at me in a friendly and pleasant manner. Then one of them said he recognized me and said he had wondered what had happened to me over the last few months. Then the two guards both said they hoped I enjoyed my stay in Delhi and would come back to ACSA for a visit soon.

I found the entire experience was rather Twilight Zone-ish. Positively freaky!!

The burger; however, was lovely as always!

Taxi Driver Man

Getting a taxi or rickshaw in Delhi can be as much a test of your knowledge of the city as it is your willingness to take a chance the honesty of your driver. I should begin by explaining that there are two ways to get a price on your taxi ride here: you can go by the meter or you can negotiate the price in advance. No matter which method you choose to follow you have about a 50/50 chance of having overpaid for your journey.

To demonstrate the mark of a local, I will begin by telling you of when I knew I was officially back in Delhi. During my first week here, I asked a taxi driver to take me to Shanti Niketan where I would be enjoying Thanksgiving dinner with friends. Having been to the neighborhood dozens upon dozens of times in the last dozen or so months I could well have driven there myself from the hotel - blindfolded.

When my driver pronounced that the trip would cost 200 rupees I couldn’t help but laugh aloud. I gently explained that I was not a stupid white tourist and I knew exactly where I was going: the payment would be 100. “Ahh but madam this is much too less!” No, I explained to him, it wasn’t as the fare would less than even my 100 rupees on his meter when the trip was done. He bowed his head in defeat and drove off – the long scenic way naturally.

Upon our arrival in front of Lady Bird’s house, the driver sheepishly flipped over the cloth the he (and all the taxi drivers in Delhi) kept over the meter. I read it and grinned at him. “Two hundred rupees, huh?” I laughed. Based on the slightly higher than negotiated meter price, I handed him Rps 110 (which also included a tip for his circuitous route) and he returned my friendly laugh. “I’m sorry that I was not the tourist you were looking for. Have a good evening.” With that, he shook his head at the crazy white lady and sped off in search of his next fare.

In contrast, when Boss Man B, Hubby and I went to the Oberoi on Saturday night, my fatigue at constantly negotiating fares and the driver’s round about directions *cost* us an extra 50 rupees. I naively agreed to go by the meter and failed to pay attention to where we were going when I suddenly noticed that we had driven for about 4 minutes into a dead end would have to double back past the Taj Hotel. Then, rather than taking the route I would have chosen past our old apartment and the golf club; the taxi driver went the back way to the hotel thus ringing up a higher price.

But even a combination of good negotiating and knowing the city doesn’t always pay off as I discovered on my way to visit Kiwi and her baby Prince in GK2. Having never taken a taxi to that area I foolishly negotiated and agreed to *double* what I ended up paying on the meter to return to the hotel. Even if you know the rules, I learned, you can’t always win at this game.

(An aside here, if you will allow me Dearest Reader, as I note that Prince Kiwi is adorable. He was so sweet and cute and well behaved I *almost*, but not quite, wanted one of my own. I will have to visit them both again soon before I depart and he forgets how to correctly pronounce zebra.)

A rare instance of beating the system occurred on Sunday during a ride that Hubby and I took to the Metropolitan Niko. (Please! You knew we were going to end up at the sushi and sparkling wine brunch at some point!) Based on what we had paid to get to the hotel from Golflinks, we (I) told the driver we would pay 100 rupees to his offer of 150 rupees.

What neither the driver nor we had realized, was that it was the first Sunday of Advent and the local Catholic churches were parading through Caunnaught Place blocking several of the roads we required to reach our destination. In the end, he drove around aimlessly for an extra ten minutes trying in vain to find a back entrance to the road we needed and then we had to walk the final kilometer to brunch.

Hubby handed the driver our agreed upon 100 rupee note and he became incensed. “I drive more than rupees 100. You must pay meter.” We (I) pointed out that we had already settled upon 100 and that he had not even gotten us to our final destination. With that we walked off with a throng of local nuns who seemed headed in the right direction.

I’m not sure, my Beloved Readers, if you actually learned anything about obtaining a taxi here in Delhi from this monologue but I hope at least I have managed to amuse you slightly with the tales of trips in the back of green and black Ambassador cars. Just remember that if you negotiate in advance you will likely overpay. If you chose to go by the meter, you’ll have a good tour of the city and still probably pay too much. And if you want to go to CP on the first Sunday in Advent: Don’t!

Return of the Expat Jedi

As the plane flew through the hazy layers of smog that seem to perpetually enshroud Delhi, I knew I was home. Even the air as we debarked tasted different yet not entirely or unpleasantly unfamiliar.

The crushing reality of not going through the Diplomat line at the airport was my first dose of “visitor” reality. I wasn’t a Delhi Expat returning from leave or even a regular Delhite headed home. I was a visitor in this familiar land that seemed to have an odd ache of home and ease.

As we drove past the Niketans on the way to the Hotel I messaged Princess MK and told her the good news: the Queen Diva was back in town! Moments later she rang me and filled me in on the plans for lunch. I had been back in Delhi less than an hour and my date book as filling up rather nicely.

Queen E, the Ladies J, and the Princess met me at the hotel for what would be a marathon of a lunch. After demanding hugs from my friends, they immediately set to catching me up on the latest gossip, chat and dirt that I, being Internet-less in Nairobi, had been denied.

As the craziness reached its zenith I voice the despair we were all feeling, “Girls we need alcohol.” I could see the look of fear in the eyes of the waiter clearing our table. I don’t think he had realized or even dreamed that the insanity at the corner table was the work of sober people. Of course the Vodka Bar wouldn’t be open for another hour (42 minutes and 26 seconds, not that we were counting), so we needed to kill time.

We agreed to split up and run our respective errands and regroup for at 4:30 for drinks. We synchronized Swatches and set out. Princess MK and I piled into her car and headed for Khan Market so I could get refill cards for my prepaid SIM card. After a quick stop my old phone guy I made a beeline to Hidesign for a new a wallet.

This, I feel the need to point out in my own defense, was actually a necessary purchase as I had been using a small cloth change purse for the last year that barely fit my credit cards let alone money. After a few minutes of debate I left the store with not only a lovely leather wallet and even a small change purse to match. The whole deal (which coincidently matched my lovely Roots bag from Toronto) came to a total of less than Rps1200. And they say I don’t know how to bargain shop.

Having exhausted ourselves shopping, we headed back to Aura for refreshments. As I sat sipping a Pink Cucumber (aka Spa Drink) I smiled at the waiter who always served us back in our hey day and realized that while Delhi wasn’t home anymore but it was a really pretty darned close… for a week or three.

Missing But Not Forgotten

Rumor has it that I’ve been a wee bit lax in my blogger B!tch duties of late. *blush* Emails, text messages, phone calls, and blog comments attempting to track me down have found me hale, hearty, and, alas, internet-less. That’s right: I have a semi-decent excuse for slacking off for a change! Go fig!

When last we blogged, I was about to head off to visit my family in Toronto for some much needed R&R. Three weeks of eating my parent’s awesome cooking, shopping, and not so secret trips to Harvey’s did their thing and I eventually left several pounds heavier (not to mention with an extra suitcase full of goodies that put me way over my airline baggage weight limit). But more about that trip in a later installment... Suffice to say, for now, that the trip was so good that I even discovered that the brother I thought my father made up was actually real! Freaky yet true, my Devoted Readers.

I eventually returned to the fair lands of Kenya, which I have finally started to call home without cringing. Within days of landing in Nairobi I was whisked off of the Kenya-traz™ grounds to my very own too-awesome-for-words apartment. The movers didn’t even break anything (including us) when they saw our 4th floor walk-up complete with an additional loft (accessible only via a vaguely rickety metal winding staircase), which we had decided would be our bedroom. In a few weeks I’ll post pics of our new humble abode including the beyond kick-arse kitchen that neither Hubby nor I can stop raving about.

Since the day we moved in we’ve been cooking up a storm, Hubby has been traveling (Botswana and Ethiopia), we obtained a car, and (brace yourselves) I was even seen ironing shirts. The latter will, no doubt, be a blog unto itself as those who know me well likely don’t believe the rumor of my pressing prowess. The downside to all of this, I must lament, is that we still don’t have Internet. This last issue will hopefully (please cross your fingers and toes for me here my Friends) be resolved shortly upon our return from our current jaunt.

Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that? I’ve been jaunting again. As I type this, Hubby and I are sitting in the Emirates Business Class Lounge in the Dubai airport. (Note to BBS: this place is wicked swinging and worth the price of an upgrade.) In exchange for my foregoing a trip to Ethiopia, Hubby agreed to upgrade our tickets on this trip to India. Poor thing doesn’t even seem to fully realize that his days of passing off trips in Economy Class are so yesterday. Business Class Rules!!

Where was I? Oh yeah….

So, I spent a year complaining about India; months telling you how happy I was to leave, and even contemplated adding a count down icon to the blog to mark the occasion. And now I am not only voluntarily heading back but am even beyond thrilled to be doing so. So while Hubby toils away for the next three weeks, I will be enjoying myself at all of my old haunts with my Delhi Expat Friends, and reliving the heyday that was all of six months ago.

I am , in my most naïve way, trusting that Internet will be fairly available to me while I visiting land of my Grandfather. That, as I’m sure you are thrilled beyond words to realize, means that I will be blogging!

So watch out world, Delhi Typ0 is back and she is ready to party!