Full Circle

I told my parents that I’m coming to Germany at the end of next month. I’ve decided that it will just be a great deal easier if I go there now, so that I can set things in motion for when I want to start my university in September. I mean, before that time I’ll have to find two letters of recommendation (very hard, when you’re in India), a place to stay, a place to earn money and places to hang out.

Besides, springs were always really nice in Amsterdam. I have very fond memories of sitting in the Vondel park, which is commonly known as Amsterdam’s back garden (since the houses are too close together for anybody to actually have a back garden). So everybody throws out their blankets and their coolers and makes music, plays games, eat ice cream, drink beer, etc, etc.

Of course the last time I was there I was 22 or 23. What I enjoyed then I might very well not feel too fondly about now, but hey, I can’t keep using that as an excuse not to go back. Besides, it will only be for about 2 ½ years. After that I’ll almost certainly push off again. 2 ½ years is manageable. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself now.

The result will be a Masters in psychology and slightly less guilt floating around between my ears. Both well worth the time, if you ask me (Very often when I wake up in the morning I have this feeling of complete despondency. I feel horribly worried about where I’m going, what I’m doing and why. That is also the time where I feel the loneliest. Loneliness is integral part of being alone, of course, but that doesn’t make it any more fun.)

And after that? I really don’t know. People keep asking me why I want to go back for my masters in Psychology. I always answer the same thing: because I want to learn more about psychology. Is that the only reason, they ask, you’re not doing this for your future? Not really, I’m forced to respond, I’d probably get exactly where I’m supposed to be going even if I didn’t get my Masters degree. I’m doing this because I’ve spent too much time on the practical and I want to go back to the drawing board and look at the theoretical again.

I miss discussing the theory. I miss the mid-night drunken debates, I miss the stimulation, I miss the other people who believe they know better than you and are more than willing to try and show you. I miss the direction, the deadlines, the purpose. I miss doing something just for me, rather than for some boss or for some client. In short, I miss education.

Fortunately, when I finished university all those years ago I never said that I absolutely never would go back, or at least I think I didn’t, but I got pretty close. It’s funny how we change our ideas so radically as we grow older, isn’t it? It’s a bit like that saying ‘somebody that’s a communist at twenty is an idealist, while somebody that’s a communist at thirty is obviously an idiot.’

Well, I’m certainly not a communist anymore.

Shifting Sands

The future laughs maliciously, cackling wildly; with splayed, tapping fingers raised in a steeple before her eyes. I will have you soon, she whispers, soon you will be mine.

We’re digging up the beach. Moving the sand around, fighting the sea’s art. Its better this way, we say. It’s better when it’s us that decide. We’re digging up the beach today, let’s not waste any time.

The twelfth hour has sounded, but we’re still going strong. My body burns with something akin to exhaustion, but the greed keeps me pumping. One, two; What shall we do? three, four; lets do one more, five six; got my fix. Half way done now, half way there. Sprinting a Marathon.

The little old men are back, but now they’re walking. Still, that one cigarette between them, still they don’t say a word. What is left to say after fifty years of friendship? What is there left to say when you believe everything worthwhile has already been said?

He found her hiding place. He discovered where her sadness went. It collected and congealed, forming into something unrecognisable and all the more dangerous for that. He caught her losing herself; showed it to her the next day. That’s not me, she claimed; no it isn’t, he answered, that is a monster.

His heart packed its bags and booked a flight home. It had had enough. It would wait for him there; at home, at the breakfast table. Maybe read the paper, go for a run. He could understand, after all he’d put it through a lot of shit. Better they go their separate ways for a while, maybe see other people. His chest wouldn’t stop bleeding.

And now for something completely different

Time for a bit of evolution. I’ve observed what I think is a very interesting evolutionary phenomenon while I’ve been down here in Palolem, regarding the packs of dogs that run around here so freely. There are hundreds of them here and life isn’t very easy for most of them; the ones that are considered the oldest (as in ‘she’s an old dog’) are generally no more than seven or eight.

That, of course, is a perfect situation for evolution to occur (even if it is a bit sad for the dogs). As in, surviving is difficult and there’s a lot of competition for limited resources; that means that there’s a real evolutionary pressure on the population. Those that live longer and procreate more will have more off-spring, which means that those dogs’ genes will be in more of the next generation’s dogs, which in turn means that they will get more genes into the next generation.

The interesting thing is that the environment that the dogs are competing in isn’t a completely natural one, with the unnatural aspect being us humans; specifically, the tourists that come and visit. What is so unnatural about the tourists? Well, they are one of the best sources of food available in the area.

No, they don’t eat the tourist, but rather the tourists feed them.

So why is that any different from anywhere else in the world where there are people about? Well, tourists are different in a lot of respects to people that stay in a place long term, especially in India. The thing is that the Indian people here are not great dog lover and do not take very good care of them, the tourist – on the other hand – are mainly westerners and many really like animals.

So, dogs are confronted with a group of people who can potentially feed them well, but who generally don’t stick around for a long time. The result of that is that those dogs that manage to latch on to kind foreigners frequently are more likely to survive longer (as they are better fed) which means they have more chances to have babies and (as said before) spread their genes.

So what are the things about dogs that are going to win tourists hearts? Well, in one word, cuteness. Cute dogs get taken better care of by the foreigners, so cute dogs are more likely to do well.

Of course, different people find different dogs cute and some people will feed dogs that aren’t that cute, because they feel sorry for them, but overall some dogs will be considered cuter by more people and get more food.

The result of that is, of course, that cute dogs have an evolutionary advantage over non-cute dogs. In other words, cuteness is being bred into the dogs of Palolem (and many other holiday destinations) through natural selection (there is no conscious decision by all tourists to feed specific dogs, it’s a naturally occurring phenomenon).

Over time, the dogs of Palolem will act and look cuter; until their cuteness starts to interfere with some other aspect of their survival (i.e. their ability to fight off other dogs).

I personally think that is absolutely fascinating.

Sand Castles

The last few days have been a bit mad. I met somebody very similar to myself; except she’s a she, ten years younger and a great deal more beautiful. She’s off today, back to Calcutta. That’s the way things go on the beach. For most it’s just a transient span of time between moments in reality. They come, they see, they change the currents and then leave memories.

We built a sand castle the other day; a suitable analogy, as she suggested. You spend a great deal of time building it, knowing full well that soon it will disappear completely, except for an impression on the mind; but you don’t regret doing it. It’s liberating, in a way, to know the conclusion before you begin. Like the monologue at the beginning of Romeo and Juliet that frees you to concentrate on the journey, rather than the end.

Mind you, our sand castle wasn’t really a castle, but more a temple. One we dedicated to the Sun Gods of Palolem. It was a square temple on a round mount. Sand doesn’t really lend itself well to square shapes, but with a bit of effort you can make it work. There was a moat, too (sand castles always need moats). Over that we built a bridge, we had to try many different strategies to cross the divide; but we got it to stand in the end, when the waves were already lapping near the moat.

It got a lot of attention, our sand castle. A little boy sitting nearby tried to build one too, but couldn’t make it match up to ours, he got very angry. There’s always a lot of envy surrounding beautiful things.

We found a hermit crab and made him the head priest. It didn’t really want to come out of its shell, though. It didn’t really want to play along. I imagine that people can be pretty intimidating to a hermit crab. I guess it was very afraid of what we might do to it. Fair play, as the Brits like to say. Shells are there for a reason. In the end it wandered around a bit.

There’s something innocent about sand castles; something that harks back to somewhere before. I haven’t done anything like this for a long time. Probably won’t again for a while to come. These kinds of things are best if they remain unique.

A single sand castle on Palolem.

Of course, sooner or later the analogy breaks down (as otherwise it wouldn’t be an analogy but the actual event). The sand castle’s impact will always be minimal; what we had might reverberate for a little while longer. I just hope that – taking all the positive and the negative – there will be no regrets.

But then a good mate of mine down here correctly pointed out that the only things you truly regret are the things you didn’t do. I feel he’s right about that - I hope she feels the same way.

House

I am the proud possessor of a house. Well, leaser of a house, but it’s mine. Yesterday I was over at the house of the people that I work for and one of them mentioned that he was trying to find a renter for a house. It was a two bedroom place, with a kitchen, a fridge, furniture and a veranda. I jumped on it and asked how much it would cost. He said six thousand rupees a month. I worked it out, that’s 200 roops a day. That is exactly what I pay for one room now. (200 roops is about 5 US)

I went and took a look and immediately took it; then talked to a friend who is looking for a new place herself and offered her the other room for half the rent. So, in other words, I get a room, a fridge, a living room, the company of somebody who’s fun and all that for half the rent I’m paying now! That is a sweet deal if I’ve ever heard one.

I’ve told all my mates down here that I’ve got a new place and we’ve decided that we’re having a house warming party tomorrow night. I have a slight suspicion that the party might well have to become a garden warming party as well, because – though the living room is reasonably sized – there are bound to be more people there than is reasonable. Here on Palolem people will take any excuse to have a party and this is one of the best excuses so far.

I’ve got a fridge! I can make my own food! I can buy my own beer! I’m using too many exclamation marks! I don’t care!

This will certainly make it harder to leave in a month and a half. Now I actually feel like I’m living here. I’ve got a job, I’ve got a house, I’ve got friends, I’ve got water in my ear (really annoying) I’ve got enough money to survive for the rest of my trip and I’ve got the application forms for my uni downloaded. That will start in September.

I wish I could make more money out here then I’m making right now, so that I could make the money I’ll need for uni out here. Why would I ever go back to live in a big city, which has apparently gone severely down hill, when I can live on a beach and make my bucks instead?

One step at a time. Let’s first see what the next few weeks bring, when I’ve done that I’ll decide where it’s better for me to go. Let’s just enjoy what I’ve got and not worry, for the moment about what I’ve got to do.

Sunday

So, as of yesterday I’ve been taken completely on board by the Silent Noise team. Last night I helped organise the loaning of headphones (if you don’t know the concept of Silent Disco, Google it, it’s quite innovative) and getting them back. I was on crowd control and I somehow still managed to get far too drunk; still, the organisers didn’t say a word and seemed quite happy with my performance.

Today I’m writing a press release for them, which they can supply to one of the major papers here in the area, who has decided to write a big article about them. I’m a little hung over, so it’s going slower than usual, but I’ll get it done. After all, I’ve written articles with a high fever, drunk and a whole other host of mental states, without any serious negative impact on the quality.

I guess you know that you can do your job well when you can still do it when you’re not a hundred percent. Of course, it’s better to try to be a hundred percent, but unfortunately life never works that way.

After the press release (and this blog entry) it’s time to work on university applications. I’ve found a couple of places where I wouldn’t mind studying, with my first choice being Social Psychology at the VU in Amsterdam. It seems to pretty much combine everything that I’m interested in. I’m just hoping they’ll accept me. I mean, my grades at uni were pretty good, but they weren’t brilliant (largely because all I did while I was there was role play, smoke pot and not go to class). I’ve basically only really developed a thirst for knowledge and learning in the last few years, but how do I show that to the application board?

I guess it’s going to have to be the same way that I got into my first university, which was through my motivational letter. I remember walking into the office of the dean who said ‘your motivational letter was very interesting, but we have no idea what you were trying to say’. I might not try that same trick again, but it is there that I have to shine.

Yup, I’m working on a Sunday. Of course, I don’t really have a problem with that, as the normal work week has not been a part of my life for well over seven months now. I prefer it that way; I like to work when I want to work, not when some clock says I have to.

Yeah, there really is no way I’ll ever be able to work in a standard office. I’ll either drive everybody else mad or commit suicide. For the life of me I can’t understand how all of you do it. I greatly admire your ability to do it, but I can’t understand how. Don’t you hate yourself every single morning as you drag yourself out of bed for yet another day under some other person’s thumb? I guess it’s all right to be under somebody else’s thumb if you respect them, but what if you don’t?

I’ve heard that bad bosses are the primary reason most people quit, while having a best friend in the office is the primary reason why people stay. I guess I can get into that. Ultimately it is all about who you share your life, your ideas and your time with.

And I seem to share all of that with you. Figure that.

Glug glug glug

It feels like I’m back in Singapore. Last night, for the first time since I’ve been here (and the first time in Febuary for as long as people here can remember) it rained. One of those tropical rain storms that I got oh so used to in Singapore, but I was hoping I’d kind of left behind. Now it’s muggy, hot, humid and hazy; sweat is pouring down my face, the shade is just as hot as the sun and everybody is moving at a crawl.

The only solution is, of course, beer. (that’s the great thing about beer, it is pretty much a solution to nearly everything, including hangover, breakups, stress, boredom, nervousness, ugly women and – of course – heat.)

I haven’t had one yet, as I only really came to the conclusion that that was the solution as I was writing this, but I’m going to remedy that right now. Just a second, right back.

Situation remedied. A large cold one, with condensation beads rolling down the side. It’s a Kingfisher, which is probably the most palitable beer out here (I have to say, the Indians could take a lesson in beer-brewing; to think that this beer, which franky isn’t that good, helps support an entire airline is quite shocking, to say the least. Still, beggars can’t be choosers and this beggar likes to be a boozer, so I’ll go with what I can get.)

The rain storm last night hit during our newest attempt at a party. It’s a 60s – 70s disco themed party and many people were convinced that it had gone to hell when the rain started coming down. They were quite wrong. You see, what happened was that everybody ended up having to huddle under what ever cover was available and since there wasn’t that much available, it made people get much closer than they usually would. The consequence was that everybody started talking to everybody and a really great mood resulted.

When we turned the music back on, where before we only had three people on the dance floor, it suddenly flooded with people, who danced till the small hours (well, not that small, only 2:30). I’ve been trying to tell everybody that the best way to make a mood is to force people to be close together, so that they have more opportunity to interact. The most successful clubs I’ve been to have always done that (by keeping areas closed until the club fills up to a certain limit). Maybe now they will try to incorperate that into the rest of the parties.

Of course it might be hard, considering the big party is in a grassy field, which might be a little hard to block off, but I still think it should be considered.

This is probably of absolutely no interest to any of you, is it? Maybe I should just go drink my second cold one away from the computer (yes, the first one’s finished). Then I can sit and bitch about the weather, while secretly having a great time. Actually, I might possibly be having a great time because of the bitching. A good bitch never really goes amiss.

I’ll shut up now.

Too much and too little

Palolem is becoming incredibly busy for me personally. There is less and less time to just hang out with friends and shoot the shit, instead I’m finding that I don’t even have enough time in each day to do everything I need to do. Every day I’m being forced to push something back to the next day. This way stuff is going to keep piling up and I’ll end up stressed out in one of the most relaxed places in the world.

I’m not sure if I told you, but I’m working with a group here that do parties with headphones. The reason for the headphones is that there is a rule out here in Goa, that you can’t have live music, movies or really any kind of noise after ten o’clock. Yes, it really still is a third world country in many ways. So we get by that by giving everybody radio headphones (as in, they receive radio signals).

Originally, when I first started helping them flyering, it was only a few hours a week and it kept me in focus (they are also the people helping me out with my modeling work). Now it has turned into a four to five days a week job (albeit paid, so not all bad). The reason? Well, they’ve gone from only one party a week to four. This means that they have more work and more flyering has to be done. In other words, less people are out there to flyer and more flyers have to be handed out.

Yesterday I needed four hours to go across the whole beach, from one end to the other. It’s only a one and a half kilometer stretch! Of course, the work doesn’t quite end there, as I then still have to show up at the even itself and make sure people are having a good time. You see, I only get paid if they make a profit.

Besides that I’m still trying to get a few hours a day in on my short story, I’m trying to apply to university, stay in shape (which isn’t as easy as it sounds, with the gym being 45 minutes away) and a whole plethora of other things.

Add to that the fact that I’m not that far away from possibly going back (I still haven’t got any jobs that actually pay me well enough that I can consider staying out here and making my money here for university) and it’s all becoming a bit stressful.

I seem to be incredibly good, these days, at always getting myself involved in far too many things in far too little time. Still, at least I don’t have to feel guilty about not getting anything done. The only thing I have to feel guilty about right now is that I still haven’t sent out any proper applications to universities.

Elegance

I was sitting on the beach with a couple of mates yesterday, discussing women. In fact, I’ve been sitting on the beach for the last two months with a couple of mates discussing women; but yesterday was a little bit different from those other days, because mixed in with the usual ‘ooh, she’s got big ones!’ and ‘why do whales wear thongs?’ was a topic of slightly more sophistication; namely the topic of elegance (no pun intended).

We discussed how elegance was attractive, but since we were at an Irish wake (yet another person I knew has died, January has been a vicious one) and we were celebrating it in Irish style (i.e. we were on the piss) the topic soon got dropped.

Still, the idea kept bouncing around in my head and I’ve come to the conclusion that elegance is, as a matter of fact, a common characteristic in all the women that I find attractive. Elegance isn’t just a nice bonus; it seems that to me it is essential.

For example, I was at a live music night and a few chairs down there was a woman who I initially thought was truly stunning. The moment she started to move, however, she became a little less attractive, then she started to talk her stock dropped a little more and turned herself from a true beauty into a monstrosity. It was much like one of those films, where the girl is a real stunner until she smiles and reveals teeth that are more appropriate for a donkey’s mouth.

The reason? There was no grace to her. Her movements were choppy and hard, her voice was uncouth and her laugh belonged to a woman five times her weight, who could carry ten litre glasses and drink them too. She acted like a man with not enough hair and too much belly.

Alright, so she now we know she wasn’t elegant, but that doesn’t answer what elegance is. Truth be told, I’ve only thought about it for a little bit, so I’m not sure this will be my final answer, but right now I think elegance is largely an awareness of your body and the way it moves. It has something to do with the efficiency and speed of a person’s movement. That is probably why many people say elegant women float, it’s because their movements are so efficient and calm that they don’t have that up and down jarring motion that is common in almost everybody else.

Another part of elegance is that it is not masculine. Don’t get me wrong, men can be elegant, (though it is less common) but elegance isn’t masculine. Elegant men will doubtlessly often be called gay and quite possibly many elegant men are actually gay (though certainly not all gays are elegant). Masculine behaviour is hard and edged. If I was asked to associate materials with masculinity, it would be bone, steel, sweat and blood. None of those four things can be considered elegant.

Therefore, women that act like men are – by definition – not elegant; they appear unnatural and uncouth. Of course, maybe they are perfectly happy not being elegant and that is their choice, of course. Just as it is my choice (unconsciously, I might add) to not be interested in them. I’m sure there are enough men who don’t give a damn, just as there are enough women that do; and thus everybody remains happy.

On Creativity

Not too much to report in my daily living, so time for some philosophical rambling.

I’d like to talk about creativity, today. The reason being that I was recently invited to possibly give a guest lecture at a university in Bangalore on that exact same topic, so I thought it might be a good idea to throw some of my raw thought out here for me to refine at a later date (yes, you’re my sounding board, don’t you feel honoured?)

For me creativity is a battle between my imagination and the little man on my shoulder. It isn’t really the most original analogy, but it’s one that works well. The little man on your shoulder is that little bugger that goes ‘hey, that isn’t good enough’ about nearly everything that you do. I believe a large part of the difference between creatives and non-creatives is that the latter listen to that little asshole (excuse my French), while the former manage to shut him off.

The best way to shut him off, of course, is to just ignore him; the problem is that that is extremely hard. A much more common way for people to switch him off is to drown him out. The most popular way to do that is with drugs (i.e. alcohol, marijuana, LSD, etc.) and that is possibly why you hear of so many creatives being druggies. This is not the most advisable way to kill him, as ultimately it will probably kill you as well (those that use drugs recreationally are called users, those that need to take drugs are called addicts).

The little man on your shoulder is, of course, self-doubt. Everybody has it, nobody can get away from it and it will always be there. The thing is, that when you first start to be creative that is when the little man is the loudest and that is also when you need him to F off the most. Creativity is just like any other skill. It is one that you learn over time. The more often you create, the better you become at it.

When you first start to create, your work will be raw, probably conventional (you haven’t veered away much from the mainstream yet) and possibly even childish. That’s okay when you’re a child (that’s when I started my creative process), but it’s a lot harder to deal with if you want to start being creative as an adult.

The trick is to realise that every single creative process that you embark on is only a stepping stone to something better later on. That way you can tell the little bastard on your shoulder ‘yes, I know it’s crap, but if I make crap now, then I’ll make less crap later’.

You see, the thing is that to be a creative you actually have to create. Many people forget this part of it (I did, for a very long time. I called myself a writer, when I really wasn’t writing terribly much). You can philosophise about creativity as much as you like, but the only way to become more creative is to actually try to create something. Only in that way do you learn to think outside the box.

Learning by rote is something you become better at over time, socialising is something you become better at over time, reasoning is something you become better at over time, so why shouldn’t creativity be something you become better at over time?

Don’t listen to that little guy. Create, create and create. And remember, you can be a creative even though nobody else knows. Artists don’t need to be recognised; only successful artists need to be recognised. A good friend of mine said it well, when he said ‘Is it art? Well I say it is, so it’s art.’ Of course, he’s allowed to think that way because he’s a recognised artist, but then he might have become a recognised artist because that’s how he thought.

In other words, which came first, the chicken or the egg? You decide.

Real Life Intrudes

Yesterday I sat down and took all the entries from three days before my trip till now. I had no idea how much I had written and was keen to find out how much it was. It exceeded my wildest expectations; I had written nearly 100 pages, or about 50,000 words.

It took quite a while to put them all in the right order (from oldest to newest). The idea is that I take all this stuff and turn it into a story, of some kind. I’m not yet sure when I’ll do it, but I think it might be a good bit of fun. Of course, I kind of doubt that anybody but my friends would be interested in reading it, but sometimes it isn’t necessary to do something for the whole world to see.

I’m also planning to use it as the ‘photo album’ of my trip. Since I haven’t taken any pictures, I’m going to have to make do with words to remember. I think it should work alright, though I suspect it won’t be a terribly effective remembering tool for anybody, but myself; though that is probably true of a normal photo album as well.

Since I haven’t read the entire thing yet, I wonder what kind of a feeling it will leave me with. Will I be excited, elated, melancholic, unhappy, upset, disgusted, irritated, embarrassed or something completely unexpected? Only time (free time, mind you, it will be quite a read) will tell.

For the rest I’ve been writing a great deal.

Last week I spent most of the week stuck on a specific point in my writing, fortunately I solved that about two days ago and I’ve been writing ferociously. That will keep going until I hit another road block and then once again I’ll have to just sit around and wait for the problem to resolve itself in my head (it’s kind of a passive process, much like a witch’s cauldron, where you’re never sure what’s going on inside, but you can be pretty sure something interesting is going to float up if you stir it the right way).

I guess the right word to use for my writing would be ‘sporadic’, which isn’t really a good word to associate with it, seeing as I call myself a writer (beach bum doesn’t have quite the same ring to it).

I should also really be working on applying to universities, but I’m already far exeeding my ‘things in a day quotiont’ for Palolem. Still, I feel bad about not doing it every morning, so I don’t think it will be too much longer before I get started on that. Bugger my guilt!

I concluded a few days ago that I’m not living the beach life anymore, but more a life by the beach. Real world responsibilities reach you even in Palolem; which is a good thing, as there is only so much relaxation one can do before it becomes stressful.

Beach Life

The land washes into the sea, an eternal moment of regression, digression, destruction and rebirth. Dreams are born here, at the edge of consciousness, there between that space of you and me.

Collective unconsciousness fantasises about a day when she can break through, from the idealised to the realised, there to understand suffering and embrace mortality; for only when your time is limited does a moment matter.

This isn’t poetry, she sneered, it isn’t even good! I could only shrug, while I fantasised about a thousand moments of murder. I’d curse her and she’d ask – but why does my opinion matter? – I’d hesitate. She’d get away. Outwitted, by my own imagination.

Father Time had lost track of time. He could have sworn he’d put her on the table, by his beer glass; but now she was gone. He could still feel the sand trickling away, he could still hear the continuous rush of inevitability, a dull roar that only he couldn’t ignore; but the hourglass was gone. She’d probably found somebody younger to spend herself with. Another beer, bartender, for tonight might never end.

The smoke from a single cigarette dances the tango over the ashtray.

They moved among each other, but lived different lives. White and Black swirling in and out of view, but never really into each other’s existence. A barrier of derision, stereotyping and miscommunication colouring both their lives.

The eyeless corpse stares back.

Beach Bum

Yesterday I spent all day running around to help organise a party and getting absolutely inebriated in the process. That’s the problem when the organisers give you free piss from three o’clock in the afternoon and the party keeps going till six the next morning. Apparently I was very amusing. I might have been, I’m not quite sure.

Today is a day for recovery. My mind is foggy and a little on edge, but already on the mend. I’m not exactly sure what I’m to do with myself while I slowly recover (sometimes you’d just wish you could not be there while the recovery process goes on), but I imagine it might involve walking down the beach at a leisurely pace while looking at people (preferably of the opposite sex).

I might have some work down here now. The organisers of the party (a weekly affair that involves head phones and radio signals to get passed the noise ban at 10 o’clock) might be taking me on board for pay, rather than just free plonk. It’s funny how I can now find work pretty much everywhere I go. It never quite covers my expenses, but it makes the slow bleeding of funds from my account a little more bearable.

Did I mention I moved apartments? In order to survive the odd two months that I’m still hanging around I downgraded my apartment. It actually isn’t much of a down grade. It’s more of a moving into something slightly more permanent; out of the bamboo hut (nice for a few weeks, but a bit inconvenient) into a cement structure. Cement keeps the heat better at night and it can get bloody cold on this beach. This place has a real dry heat that fades very quickly when the sun is gone.

The only problem with it is the vermin. Mosquitoes try to eat me at night, while rats on occasion try to eat my roof. I’m not quite sure why they do that either, but they are slowly trying to gnaw through my tiles. Not to get through, mind you, if they were trying to get through they would have got through a long time ago, instead they seem to be gnawing along some seam in the tiles that they, for some mysterious reason, find rather tasty.

Many people are rather shocked that I am so blasé about rats sharing my living space. I guess it’s a matter of travelling a lot as well as realising that rats always share our living space, but some are smart (or scared) enough to keep hidden, while others obviously don’t care if we notice them. I happen to have the second type of rat (unfortunately).

Yeah, the adventures aren’t quite done yet. I think it’s time for a Bloody Mary.