It seems just a few days ago that we sailed the vast emptiness of the Southern Atlantic and the Indian Ocean. Not a ship in sight for days on end, but now, there are at least a dozen huge freighters whenever one looks out to sea.
We are in the Malakka Strait, on the way from Goa to Port Kelang in Malaysia, one of the most travelled shipping routes in the world.
We got used to the state of Pirate Readiness aboard, manifesting itself by 24 hour deck patrols, armed with radios and high powered binoculars. Firehoses are laid out and ready to deploy to deter any unwanted boardings. The infernal noise makers are ready, but things run along as usual.
No pirates, no terrorists, just the odd dolphins pop up in the bow wave of the moving ship or a flock of flying fish skims across the wave tops.
Well, Malakka is not exactly free of pirates, but they get less press, and more ships than their Somalian buddies. However, their interest lays more in waylaying luctrative freighters, diverting them to some secret location, and resending the merchandise at great profit to somewhere else. We are not exactly precious cargo, as we mostly consist of oldish geezers with a couple of fancy jewels. Chickenpoop compared with a gigantic tanker of a huge car carrier. I hear Toyota carriers are safest now, too many recalls...
There is a sparrow aboard, who picks at crumbs and must live somewhere on the ship for his Passage from India. There are large scale bugs luckily in very small numbers - only one lone cockroach was seen skurrying around in the lady's shower beside the Lido Deck swimming pool. Well, I have yet to see anybody taking the obligatory shower before entering the pool, so this cockroach may have a chance of remaining undetected for a while.
We had our personal cricket incidence in our stateroom. The little lonely insect started to chirp in search for a mate at around 12 midnight - somewhere inside our cabin. It chirped and got no answer, so after acouple of quiet minutes, it broke the nocturnal silence again with more insistent and lonely chirping. Still no answer, but by that time, we were awake and ready to go on cricket safari. My cabin mate switched the lights on, and the cricket stopped for a second, only to restart it's desperate lovesong with renewed effort a couple of seconds later.
Well, it's after midnight, and there was no way we would ring housekeeping to liberate the cricket for us. My room mate in full black satin regalia snuck through the room, her ear attuned to any cricket whisper, which of course seems to emit from every corner of the room all at once.
I was resigned to sleep with the critter doings its thing, but not my room mate. She was not at all inclined to let it get away with a night full of serenades to us, the unwilling listeners.
Up she climbed onto the soft leather couch, scrutinizing the slats of the ceiling airconditioning vent for a trace of cricket. Down on her knees to lift the bedskirts, back on top of her bed, to examine the secret recesses of the porthole curtains...and the cricket chirped every time from the opposite direction of the focus of her hunt. Determined, arms akimbo, frowning with wrath....where is that d....cricket.
But, like a cat just before the final pounce to catch her prey, she nosed closer to the folds of her evening dress, reposing innocently on a chair, lifted a couple of folds carefully and exposed the fat little cricket, which shut up immediately.
Ha, it was not enough to save it from its fate. Being the second time, that a cricket has made it into our stateroom (the first one was granted mercy and set free on the outside deck) the death sentence was pronounced:
Into the toilet you go, no outside deck for you!!!
My pleading for commuting the sentence to "LIFE aboard ship" was of no avail.
My room mate capped the poor thing with one of our large wine goblets, I got up and assisted with the execution by handing over one of the 'Good Night and Sleep Well' cards, which we receive every night complete with a little chocolate. That paper was slid underneath the wineglas and the cricket was trapped. It ran around the inside rim of the glass begging for pardon, but my room mate ignored the frenzied activity and disappeared into the bathroom, cricket trap and all. One short sucking sound of the vaccuum toilet inside, and serene quiet returned to the cabin. Poor cricket.
A couple of weeks ago ...bulbs in waisted vases turned up in our cabins. They thrive, except in the inside staterooms without natural lights. So our lot has grown by a couple extra flowers from friends in dark places. Of course, any temporaty home has to have a few potted plants on the windowsill.
As with any village, the local gossip is rife. Who has matched up with whom, and will it last if one of them gets off the ship one segment earlier than the newfound lover? So, Love is in the air, even amongst the crowd of retirees cruising the oceans.
The burning question looms: which dance host considers himself more 'social' host than 'dance' host, meaning he thinks that shifting his weight from one foot to the other regardless of music is sufficient 'dancing' whilst he entertains his partner with endlessly boring trivia about the origin of the lyrics to old pop songs. Yawn.
Then there is the lady who keeps account of the frequency the hosts ask her to dance, she even suggested issuing 'tickets' for dance turns. That didn't fly.
A few wardrobe malfunctions on and off the ship, with a lot of cleavage offending the locals ashore, and bare skin at the dinner table increasing in direct proportion to the number of males joining the party. Dress code is definitely a Secret Code worthy of deciphering by the CIA: who can figure out the difference between Casual, Resort Casual, Smart Casual, Formal Optional and Formal, all prescribed attire for different dinner evenings. One can almost forgive the poor misguided sod for turning up in torn jeans, a t-shirt and blue crocks to a formal night. Maybe the next thing is 'Clothing Optional', but then I get off the ship!
The more 'discerning' guests are also well known by now: no menue option is suitable, regardless of variety in choices as well as variety in restaurants: guests need 'side dish amendments', strange main course combinations of double or tripling up, something or other NOT on the menu that night...the attendants, not allowed to say no to any request, run themselves silly and miraculously satisfy every whim regardless of its outlandishness. And then there are the ones, who after all that exclusive treatment still complain bitterly about just about everything. Well, one changes tables.
We have the usual number of 'medical' cases, anything from shiners, cracked toe nails, broken ankles, potential blood clots, emergency disembarkations with ambulances at the ready....but with 1200 passengers lolling about the ship and often falling over their own feet, that is to be expected on a four month journey.
The lectures are educational and for the most part presented in such a fscinating way, that no one falls asleep. One exeption, where one rather ancient lecturer emptied the theatre only a few minutes into his speech (this one was called 'Does Europe really Exist') which was so full of rambling nonsense, long pauses, and endless inane gobbledegook, that most listeners quietly made for the exit in a hurry and dispappeared for better things to do, totally uninterested in the questionable existence of Europe.
But, I can thank other exellent presenters for new insights into Indian Deities, Explosion of Krakatoa In Indonesia, Ecology of tropical island life, Myth and Mountains of South East Asia etc etc...there is even a language class for basic Indonesian right now.
J.R. is aboard as well, the one about whom everybody asked a few decades ago: Who shot JR? (and who cares???) He also keeps quite a few people in their seats reminiscing of his and his mother's (South Pacific) TV and Movie acting careers, with photos, film clips and a few anecdotes of the Life and Liver Transplant of Larry Hagman.
I haven't made it to many of the evening shows, but I understand that some of them are quite remarkable...I believe it.
And there is the Australian Life Saving Lady, nearly eight foot tall, whith a body to match, that would put a Valkyrie to shame. She is flamboyant indeed, and occupies a specially designated bar stool wherever she goes, but her 'wherever' is restricted to the libation places.
There is the American Republican lady, who thought that Holland American should arm the crew with Uzis to fight off potential pirate attacks, that did not fly either - wow!
There are the straw widows, ladys with husbands relegated to the homefront to guard the Portfolio whilst they sail the ocean blue, or the others whith husbands aboard, but wisely sending them packing during afternoon teas, so they can indulge in some deliciously outrageous dancing with the dance hosts. One of them managed to earn the name 'The Clinger' after she nearly suffocated the dance hosts with her soflty strangling embraces and 'show -me-your-etchings' deamy glances deep into their eyes. Well, she left in Mumbai, and hubby has to take the heat again.
Tonight is St. Patrick's Night, and the whole ship goes green. Last night was Indian Night, and my saree stayed put where it was tucked (and actually looked pretty smashing I might say) for the whole evening. Dancing was a little curtailed for me, as any misstep onto the trailing silk hem would have resulted in my own personal wardrobe malfunction, leaving me half revealed in a mountain of silk. Ah, the re-incarantion of Venus or something like that could have happened right here upon leaving Karma Kountry..
Life goes on, my 'portfolio' is growing, the one with my attempts at watercolour painting. By now, I paintede my share of tortoises, zebras, light houses, fishing boats, sturgeon fish, ice bergs, penguins, elephants, zulu masks, ganeshe deities, and flamingos, enough paintings to paper the Chinese Wall.
But, there is still time - the Wall comes later. Tomorrow is Port Kelang, Malaysia, and I am off to Kuala Lumpur...
