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Wed 1 Nov, 2006 06:26 am
Small fiction.
(Well, almost..)
I was sitting there, in the wooden deck of the small hotel facing the Del Seis beach.
All kinds of thoughts were crossing my mind and their tone was not a happy one.
I fully resented the loneliness and the crushing weight of this intolerably humid and hot climate.
Why in the world was I sitting here, in this small island of Bioko, Equatorial Guinea, the only Spanish speaking country in Africa?
For the same reason of the many conflicts going on in the world: oil! These last years, the country had found itself sitting on major offshore fields. I was on a primary visit before signing a contract.
But my present thoughts were pretty far from the reasons of my staying in Malabo.
Instead, I was wondering how the perception of one's immediate environment can vary.
The light of this particular place seemed embedded in the air. I've seen in many other places, that light usually seems to cross the atmosphere and reflect on trees and buildings. I've heard so many people describe and praise the peculiarity of the light of the places they live in. All are convinced, along with every other kind of beliefs, that their stuff is better than that of the others.
How it seemed derisory here! My experience, having seen so many places, is that things beyond compare don't exist.
Well, maybe not.
My mind soon focused on the obsessing thought since I left Guwahati, India, before stopping in Mumbai and heading to Cape Town.
Just a few Europeans had seated in the plane among the colour dressed Indians. I was sitting by a window and looking at the red roof of the airport. Then my eyes get caught by the wonderful vision of this British (I was sure she was British) lady, walking toward me. As she approached, I was taken by the magnetic attraction of her gaze. She had magnificent green-blue eyes, the kind many poets could have said they were lakes where in can drown in.
But her eyes were not her only remarkable feature. Heavy cascading blond curly hair falling till her shoulders, framed a perfect face of light complexion. She was also remarkably tall, 5' 9" as she confirmed later, and slender.
As she checked her place, she seated by my side with a greet. I replied with a vague greeting in my slightly French accented English, which immediately triggered her curiosity.
We started a four hour talk, mainly the narration of her life. She was in India to visit her grandfather, a former colonel of Her Majesty's Army of India, who chooses staying there after the independence, in 1947.
Of the rest of her talk I could make a book.
To be followedÂ….
Ou la la!!!
Although, 5'9" is not remarkably tall, Francis :wink:
Well, JPB, it is, at least in my usual surroundings!
But I guess you are at least that tall.
Indeed, our JPB is remarkably tall.
Francis, the company I work for does a lot of business in EG. (I'm sure I'll never be sent there. Well, there's an outside chance by it's very unlikely.) I've never heard anyone talk about the light, but there's been a lot of discussion of the humidity...
Maybe it's only me, Mac. I found that kind of light rather peculiar and I think it's a direct consequence of the humidity rate (some days about 100%).
Poets are rarely involved in business...
Oy! I was beginning to worry about you.
Seems I most certainly need not have.
:wink:
Anyway, it was a nice thought, Deb.
Thank you.
Francis wrote:Well, JPB, it is, at least in my usual surroundings!
But I guess you are at least that tall.
Oui, but enough about me. Where's chapter 2?
It will come in due time, I'm writing...
Francis wrote:It will come in due time, I'm writing...
I'll bet that's what you tell all the girls.
That about the writing you mean?
George wrote:I'll bet that's what you tell all the girls.
I'm not that predictable, George.
Francis wrote:George wrote:I'll bet that's what you tell all the girls.
I'm not that predictable, George.
I knew you were going to say that.
...
Well, it looked like she needed some "ear", which was ok as mine were available.
I had asked some polite, though personal questions. She readily responded but with a profusion of details that surprised me. She seemed eager to respond any question so I went ahead and asked more and more intimate questions.
First, she told me about her grandfather, who originally was from York. He was in charge of the army command of this region of Assam. As so, he had a bright social life, often going to parties and receptions along with the civil authorities and the high castes of the locals, seconded by his wife, who he married in England.
After the independence, he resigned the army and was approved as a consultant to the local government.
By the beginning of the fifties, he sent home his son Gary (Lynn's father), for an English education. Gary became later a well known diplomat, married Lynn's mother.
So, I was listening, attentively I must say, to this magnificent woman and it was an interesting story.
She married a diplomat, an acquaintance of her father. It was a very poor choice, she didn't hesitate to tell me. He was away in mission most of the time, leaving her to assume the duties of the household.
This was very frustrating for this bright woman with an, I thought so, excellent education and, assuredly, very high social skills.
So, she travelled a lot and alone most of the time.
We were both heading to Cap Town after connecting in Mumbai. Naturally, we stood together at the airport during the three hours gap between the flights. She pursued her story, now mainly focused on her life, or lack of, with her husband.
Some moments, intended to be an achievement of happiness and serenity, turned out to be the most dreadful parts of their relationship. She told me how vividly she remembered their long planned vacation in the paradise like islands of Seychelles. They shared an extremely beautiful villa with another couple of friends. They all expected it would be bliss in their rather busy lives.
But everything went awry since the first evening.
She was prepared to have a delightful session of lovemaking.
He: let's do it quickly, I'm tired.
In the morning, she: stay in bed, dear, no need to get up.
He: No, our friends are already up (but no sounds in the house).
Second evening: he felt asleep immediately of too many cocktails.
In the morning, she: are you feeling like it, dear?
He: no, you know I'm not a morning person.
With one noticeable exception, it went this way all their stay.
Then she asked me this simple question: how would you feel after such vacation?
I had a hard time finding a socially acceptable answerÂ…
To be followed...
...and eagerly awaited...
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