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Deepavali Nal Vazhthukal … Happy Diwali …

Posted in History, Island life, News, Religion, Seychelles, tagged , , , , on November 5, 2010| Leave a Comment »

The Rangoli of Lights

‘Tis the season to be jolly over a wide range of holidays celebrated by loads of people in various points on the globe and things brighten up considerably after the ghoulish glee of Halloween in the US and Dia de los Muertos in Mexico as the lights go on in India.

Yes, it’s Diwali, दीपावली in Sanskrit, and also known as Deepavali, the Festival of Lights.

The name Diwali is itself a contraction of the word “Deepavali”, which translates into row of lamps. Diwali involves the lighting of small clay lamps (diyas) (or Deep in Sanskrit: दीप) filled with oil to signify the triumph of good over evil. During Diwali, all the celebrants wear new clothes and share sweets and snacks with family members and friends.

I did my bit today by stopping into the Indian-owned shops I frequent with wishes for a Happy Diwali and was treated to big smiles, lovely whiffs of incense and a gander at more-than-usually elaborate alter offerings. The Hindu temple in town will be hoppin’ tonight!

Unlike in the Christian world where only one version of any given holiday is deemed acceptable and all those pagan vestiges like putting trees in houses and hunting for colored eggs are considered mere fluff, those of various beliefs embrace Diwali for a host of different reasons.

Where the Hindus in some regions spend their holiday worshipping Lord Ganesha and mark the marriage of Lakshmi to Vishnu, those in Bengal dedicate the festival to Mother Kali, their goddess of strength.

The Jains use the occasion to celebrate the moment Mahavira attained Nirvana:

Diwali has a very special significance in Jainism, just like Buddha Purnima, the date of Buddha’s Nirvana, is for Buddhists as Easter is for Christians. Lord Mahavira, the last of the Jain Tirthankaras, attained Nirvana or Moksha on this day at Pavapuri on Oct. 15, 527 BC, on Chaturdashi of Kartika, as Tilyapannatti of Yativrashaba from the sixth century states:

Mahavira is responsible for establishing the Dharma followed by Jains even today. According to tradition, the chief disciple of Mahavira, Ganadhara Gautam Swami also attained complete knowledge (Kevalgyana) on this day, thus making Diwali one of the most important Jain festivals.

For the Sikhs, the lights have a glow all their own:

Diwali is a Hindu festival of lights that was appropriated by the Sikhs to celebrate the release from prison of Guru Hargobind, the sixth Guru, from prison in 1619. The Golden Temple was illuminated with lights to welcome the Guru home, and Sikhs continue this tradition by lighting lamps on Diwali each year. The Golden Temple is illuminated with thousands of lights.

There are, of course, roots trailing all the way back to the earth, as all religions to if you follow the path far enough:

Deepavali marks the end of the harvest season in most of India. Farmers give thanks for the bounty of the year gone by, and pray for a good harvest for the year to come. Traditionally this marked the closing of accounts for businesses dependent on the agrarian cycle, and is the last major celebration before winter. Lakshmi symbolizes wealth and prosperity, and her blessings are invoked for a good year ahead.

No matter what the specific focus of worship, there’s a shared perception of Diwali that I find … well … illuminating:

In each legend, myth and story of Deepawali lies the significance of the victory of good over evil; and it is with each Deepawali and the lights that illuminate our homes and hearts, that this simple truth finds new reason and hope. From darkness unto light — the light that empowers us to commit ourselves to good deeds, that which brings us closer to divinity. During Diwali, lights illuminate every corner of India and the scent of incense sticks hangs in the air, mingled with the sounds of fire-crackers, joy, togetherness and hope. Diwali is celebrated around the globe.

So, Happy Diwali to all! No matter what your belief may be, light and good deeds deserve celebrating!

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Nuts, bolts and changes …

Posted in Expat Living, Island life, Seychelles, Writing for a living on September 11, 2010| 1 Comment »

Because things are the way they are, things will not stay the way they are. ~Bertold Brecht

An interview with me sparked by my contribution to the new book Female Nomad and Friends … “ is soon to be published.

Bestselling author Rita Golden Gelman launches Female Nomad and Friends: Tales of Breaking Free and Breaking Bread Around the World (A Three Rivers Press Original), June 1, 2010, in Seattle. Forty-one authors tell their stories of adventuring around the world; all but two of them are women.

With “adventuring around the world” as a focus, the interviewer voiced an interest in my world and the changes I’ve seen since first venturing as far as Seychelles back in 1993, prompting a casting back of my mind to early days here and a brief wander through the almost-two-decades leading to the ‘modern’ island life I live now.

I’ve seen many changes to my personal circumstances, but life boiling down, as it does, to the nuts and bolts of plodding one day to the next, it’s nuts and bolts we’re looking at this morning.

I’ll start with the nuts, admitting that my mother sends me walnuts from California, but you can now often find almonds in the shops, and hardware-ish establishments seem well stocked in screws, bolts and tacks, although most are Chinese-made and break easily. The place in town that sells underwear and children’s shoes still has car tires parked at the front door, and any search for specific items involves a hunt through retailers whose shelves seem to have been arranged by Sybil.

All those years back, a phone call to my mom in the US involved a trip to town. Cable & Wireless, the only telecommunication company at the time, offered international calling booths, and for a mere $12.00 a minute would send my voice halfway around the world. Now, almost everyone over 15 has a stylish cell phone permanently plastered to their texting fingers and queues of folks with 10 rupees in their pocket to recharge prepaids at half the top-up cost stretch around town. I not only have three phones, but also an internet connection … some of the time … that offers up a daily alternative to the one daily newspaper, Seychelles Nation, a publication that has no news on Sunday.

Having spent time in many countries by 1993, I was astounded to find this island the only place I was not able to buy a Coke. SeyPearl was the sole provider of soft drinks, and Seybrew was the only brand of beer. Although Pepsi is still hard to come by and I’ve yet to see a Dr. Pepper, Coca Cola has taught this part of the world to sing and some restaurants even offer Corona, lime and all.

Before cable TV was made available, and immediately became de rigueur, SBC was the only television station. With limited programming and an interesting social sense, every evening at 8:30 it would go off-air for an hour to allow people to eat dinner. 11pm saw the end of the broadcast day and came with an admonition to viewers to ‘go to bed’. Now, however, it’s 24/7 and people here fully grasp the reference when I refer to life in Seychelles being rather like “Lost” meets “Desperate Housewives”.

The number of cars on the road has increased exponentially, as traffic and number plates prove; my first car here sported S4016, meaning it was one of 4,016 vehicles registered in the country. New ones on the road now are close to hitting 30,000, and although we did get 5 kilometers of dual carriage way … two lanes of traffic in each direction for American readers … between here and Victoria, most roads keep their narrow windiness, hairpin turns and steep grades.

The world has contracted greatly and sucked Seychelles into the homogenized ball along with it. Seychelles living is not nearly the unique experience it once was … both for the good and for the not-so-good …

BUT …

The country is stunningly beautiful, the sea is as close to pristine as water that globally connects to all water can be, we locals consider beaches crowded when we have to share with more than 20 people, and we still have not one single fast food franchise.

There could come a day when my view includes oil rigs, shopping malls rise up and become teen hangouts and a McDonald’s drive-thru beckons, but that is not today. Check back in 2026 …

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Balls and Bats …

Posted in Island life, Loss, love, science, Seychelles, tagged on September 4, 2010| 5 Comments »

(Apologies to international readers unfamiliar with baseball lingo and a pledge that this post has little to do with the sport, being actually about fruit and furry flying animals, but needed a segue … or two … as I work my way back in to blogging.)

Yeah, yeah … another strike out. So goes an inning on the big diamond of life. Still have my balls, though, and am happily stepping up to the plate. I’m ready to send any curves, sliders and sinkers lobbed toward me up, up and over the fence, yet patient enough to take a walk if that’s what will score and get me home.

Yes, hope, like baseball, springs eternal, and with Spring on the way here in the Southern Hemisphere it is a perfect time to concentrate on things home, rather than away games, ignore crowds adoring the opposing team with little respect for fair territory and tag up.

Thankfully, bats are deffo not lacking.

Another ripe jack fruit in the tree at the bottom of my garden is the venue for flying fox fests that infuse the tropical night, typically tranquil, with a rollicking, rambunctious racket that have many a Seychellois thinking curry chauve-souris for dinner could kill two bats with one stone.

I am a big fan of Pteropus seychellensis … the Seychelles fruit bat … and NOT on the plate. They put on one hell of a show of aerial acrobatics on a daily basis and add an element of drama to sunsets and rainbows. They’re also so cute.

Seychelles Flying Fox

I know there are some who suffer from chiroptophobia and am guessing pointing out that fruit bats don’t fit the designation the fear of bats has in the Latin won’t make much of a dent in any phobic armour constructed over the years from bad movies and worse stereotypes. The fact that they have sweet little faces, not the monster-like visage of some of the more perfected insectivores since sonar isn’t their guidance system, does have me going all awwwwww over them, but others might be just a tad put off by the leathery wings thing.

No matter. Even the most vampire-fearing reader should appreciate how interesting these animals are.

The Seychelles is rather poor in the amount of endemic mammals. The two endemic mammals treated here are the two endemic bats of the Seychelles. Coleura seychellensis, Sheath-tailed bat. A small insectivorous bat (10g) that reside in caves. Present on mahe and Silhouette island. An extremely rare bat with possibly less than 50 individuals.

Pteropus seychellensis seychellensis, Seychelles fruit bat. Almost black with rusty brown face and ventral side, and black/brown muzzle. A fructivorous species.

Being the only endemic mammal in Seychelles, you’d think bats would be held in higher regard, but currying … unfortunately not with favor, but flavoring … seems to be the top praise they garner.

The Seychelles fruit bat or Seychelles flying fox … is found on the granitic islands of Seychelles. It is a significant component of the ecosystems for the islands, dispersing the seeds of many tree species.

The huge jack fruit tree now serving as smorgasbord most likely began its germination in the gut of an ancestor of one of the cuties now scuttling across a branch, as did much of the fruit growing wild on this island. We can thank our little furry friends for making almost any hike on Mahé come complete with a snack somewhere, should one feel the need for a fructose boost.

I’ve known a couple of bats as pets, and although I far prefer to see them flying free they can be mighty cuddly and they like to lick. (Since bats can’t take off from the ground, if a young one falls from its mother, it’s doomed. Occasionally people find fallen babies and raise them up.)

In researching info on our bats this morning, I found an answer to a question friends and I have asked many times while Anse wallowing over the years: Why do these guys tempt fate in daredevil dives seaward that see them skimming the surface of the Indian Ocean so closely that one false wingbeat will trap them?

Over the past few years there have been anecdotal reports of Seychelles fruit bats flying low over the sea, apparently drinking. These reports, by a number of different observers, always describe a single bat flying down from a hill or mountain and dipping down to the surface of the sea. In none of the observations could it be determined for certain what the bat was doing and it was assumed that it must have been drinking. Observations have been made from the islands of Mahé, Silhouette and Aride in different months of the year (including January, March and October) but always when the sea was calm.

On 15th March 2002 a fruit bat was observed descending to the sea at Anse Patates, Silhouette island. The bat was observed from a boat approximately 300m off shore, and was estimated to be 150m away from the boat and an equal distance to the shore. Sea conditions were calm, with no air movement. The bat dipped down to the surface of the sea 4 times in the space of 2 minutes (13:07-9hrs). Due to the proximity to the bat it was possible to see that as the bat descended to the surface of the sea it dipped its breast into the water. The head was raised slightly, preventing the mouth contacting the sea. The behaviour was observed frequently in 2003; several times off the coast of Praslin and in March 2003 at least 8 bats were seen dipping down to the sea at Anse Mondon on the north coast of Silhouette. This included one bat making three repeat flights to the sea. All these bats were roosting in trees along the coast.

From these observations it is clear that the bats were not drinking but were deliberately immersing its fur in the sea. Salt-water immersion may be a strategy to remove parasites which would be expected to be abundant in a social mammal. Although this may be an effective way of removing parasites, bats using this behaviour may be at risk of falling in the sea, a risk which would be minimised by choosing exceptionally calm weather.


Blog and learn … unfurl the wings … turn a page …

(Photo credits: Wiki & Sam Benoiton)

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Why do I write thee? Let me count …

Posted in Entitled to opinions, Island life, Seychelles, Writers, Writing for a living, Writing for fun on September 1, 2010| 16 Comments »

Sandra, you seem to put a lot of your personal life out there for all the world to see. You publish under your real name, write about life, love, fears, kids and just about everything else in your world. Doesn’t it bother you that people have so much access to what might be better kept private?
Anonymous

True, not quite, yes, and no … reasons follow:

1. Because I don’t trust writers who refuse to put their name to their work, it’s long felt important that people know who I am. By not disguising my identity, I accept accountability, and given that so much of my work over the years has swirled around controversial, contentious issues that could have impact on lives, stepping up and stating clearly who I am and where I’m coming from has been important.

2. Contrary to some perceptions, I don’t actually write about everything in my life. There are huge swathes of living that don’t come under the pen because a) it’s not interesting, b) there’s nothing of value to share with readers, c) it’s not my story to tell, d) I’m saving it for a book, or e) I don’t bloody want to.

3. I find life as an open book rewarding, personally and financially. I’m a writer; opening books is what writing is about.

4. Writing about pain is cathartic. It’s neither fun, nor easy, but not only does it feel right at the time I’m spewing, I reap rewards of validation and compassion that would be hard to come by were I to sit on my story and stew.

5. I’m a cockeyed optimist when it comes to honesty. I actually feel that the more truth there is in the world, the more chance there is for improvement. Like putting a brick in the toilet, recycling or driving an energy-efficient car, writing the truth feels like doing my bit.

6. I live on an island in the middle of nowhere. It’s not like every wacko in Waco can pop by for a stalking.

7. I live on an island in the middle of nowhere. It’s not like I can cultivate a local contingent of hundreds of brilliant conversationalists to keep me sharp and interested.

8. People who come into my world understand that parts of my life end up in print. If I were a painter, I’d paint it; as a poet I poem it. Art comes from life. Send me something profound and I’ll quote you. Impress me and I’ll publicize you. Love me and I’ll celebrate you. Hurt me and I’ll whine about you. If that wraps my accountability around others who would rather not have life repeat on them, well, they knew that on the way in the door.

Nuff said …

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A slice of my life … a bit about a dog …

Posted in Family, Island life, Seychelles, tagged , on July 1, 2010| 9 Comments »

Mitzy Gainer

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything personal, but it’s time I shared a bit about life …

Shortly after I left for my vacation in Europe a few weeks back, a night of mayhem ensued here at Anse Soleil that resulted in the death of more than twenty-five dogs. My Rottweiler, Dinah, was one of the victims.

I set up facebook group dedicated to passing along information on random poisoning of animals and the horrific toxin that is scattered with that intent, but this post isn’t about that.

It’s about Mitzy.

I arrived back in Seychelles early on a Sunday morning, met by Gay, Sam and Cj at the airport. It was on the drive home that Gay told me about Dinah, and in addition to being sad about the loss of such a great dog, I was angry about the circumstance and concerned over security.

I live in the bush, and dogs are the first line of defense in this country. An adult dog with a good bark is about the best protection there is against intruders, and mine was dead. The thought of starting over with a puppy did not appeal, as my energy levels at the moment don’t allow for the outpouring of work, patience and time a puppy requires, so by the time we reached the house I was making a mental list of new locks, security lights and cameras, even trip wires maybe, that would be needed to let me sleep in peace now that I had been robbed of my automatic barking alarm.

Pulling into my house we couldn’t help but notice, much to our surprise, seated comfortably on my top step … a dog. It was astonishing enough to see a living canine in the area, since almost all had been killed, but to find one apparently awaiting my return was astounding.

We’d never seen this smallish beast before, but she seemed to know us. Tentative, but tail wagging, she was young, but no puppy, her maturity obvious by teats that had nursed at least one litter. At less than half Dinah’s size, she didn’t terrify, but there was no question she could bark.

Tired after my journey, I didn’t bother shooing her off, as I would the stray dogs that occasionally made their way down my road in the past, and somewhere in the back of my mind was the thought that she was here for a reason.

When the next morning dawned and she was still around, I found it odd since strays usually continue their straying and rarely stick around for longer than takes an opportunistic sniff to discover no food is available. Not only was she holding her ground, she managed to look very settled in it, so I let her onto the veranda. An obligatory nosing around seemed to confirm to her that she belonged. She was so polite in the process … even to the cats … and that had me thinking the same thing.

I waited three days before the kids and I started discussing names, wanting to be sure she wasn’t simply passing through or attempting to hide a vicious or obnoxious nature. Not only was she at the door each morning with what can only be described as a huge smile on her muzzle, she’d also made no messes, damaged no goods AND had alerted me to the presence of visitors.

After the kids ran dry on names, I named her Mitzy, first because she’s small and I liked the cadence of Itsy Bitsy Mitzy, but also for Mitzy Gaynor … not because I expect her to sing and dance, but because I can spell it ‘gainer”, as in: Dinah’s loss was Mitzy’s gain.

After a couple of weeks, I took Mitzy in to get her vaccinated and spayed. She had never before, I’m very sure, been on a leash or ridden in a car, but she took to both as if Westminster had been the last stop on a world tour. Within minutes of hitting the road, she hopped up onto the shelf behind the back seat and spent the entire drive to town calmly gazing at trees and traffic.

Happy grinning dog ...

In less than a month she’s settled into routines that fit our family; each night as I tuck the kids into bed, she joins in, moving from Cj to Sam with a friendly lick from her for a goodnight pat from them. She hops up on my bed for a cuddle as I wind down, then slips downstairs to sleep on the rug near the door … listening for any sound that might require a bark.

It seems that Dinah died, and Mitzy went to heaven; from scrawny stray … and local dogs can have a very hard life … to treasured family member. How she did it, how she knew, I have no idea, but there must be a wisdom in this silly little dog.

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Grief: I’m not doing it right

Posted in Children, Family, Friends, Health, Island life, Loss, love, My Chinese Checkered Past, Seychelles, tagged on May 18, 2010| 11 Comments »

As the first anniversary of my son’s death approaches … on the 2nd of June he will have been gone for one whole year … it becomes increasingly obvious that I’ve not done the greatest job of proper grieving.

Not that there is a wrong way or a right way to mourn; individually and culturally, there are as many ways to deal with death as there are people who die, and that’s about 10,007 humans per minute on this planet, so a lot of variety.

Death rituals can be part of the process when folks are lucky enough to be afforded the luxury of time to conduct them, when death happens by ones and not by thousands and in situations where the rituals themselves don’t deplete resources to the point of costing more lives.

It occurs to me as I write this, that today’s post prompted my first Google search of grief .. an indication of just how not right I’ve been doing this, and in the course of composing a fucking blog post attempt to face my grief, I’m compartmentalizing, as I’ve done from the time I was told my son was dead.

I know why I went to great lengths to encapsulate each wayward bit of grief, then swallow each whole without letting anything touch the sides. There was so much to do … get Sam and Cj sorted out so I could fly to the other side of the planet. That started it. There was no time to fall apart when packing and making sure my kids and my house and my animals would be cared for for the month I would be away, and getting myself from one airport to another had to happen, and being alone meant just that; there would be no one to hold my hand on a 16+ hour flight, and transiting in Dubai could not happen in a puddle.

Once I arrived, there was more to sort out … more than anything I’d ever considered I’d have to consider … the details of death. Jaren’s dad was there, going through this all, too, and my daughter and her family, and much of my family, and friends, all trying to cope with the loss of him.

Again, a reasonably rational mind was required.

I would go through the motions, do what needed to be done. I would meet with Jaren’s dad and stepmom, my daughter and her husband and others as we all tried to understand this sudden tragedy. I went through what was left of Jaren’s apartment, attended memorial services and let others arrange for his body to be transported to the Northern California town where we would have the funeral.

And at the end of each day, I would go to my room, cry and tell myself that if I fell apart, I would not be able to get myself back together.

Once up north, I stayed with my mother, picked out a casket, wrote stuff for the funeral. I hadn’t been in Red Bluff, California in more than twenty years. It was where Jaren was born.

Since Jaren’s dad did not object, it was decided that he would be buried where much of the family has gone, right beside my father in a lovely little cemetery in the foothills. I wandered the grounds for a while, talking to my son and hoping he was happy with the choices made for him.

I spent time with my mother and some dear old friends, and each night I went to my room alone knowing that there was more to do the next day, deciding again the time was not right to slip into grief.

There’s no doubt that I was afraid. Falling apart in an empty room seemed too much like standing on the edge of a dark precipice knowing no one was there to stop a leap, or to catch when I hit bottom.

So, I didn’t. And it got easier. Much easier to keep swallowing the pill instead of chewing the bitterness of it and experiencing all that nastiness.

Now, almost a year has passed and what I find is that through the process of getting good at keeping the pieces of my grief well separated, my whole bloody life is fragmented. I can no longer grasp big pictures, but only shards of here and there. When I find a sliver, I can gaze at it, examine it, ponder it, but I can’t see where it fits.

This doesn’t work so well.

And it seems bottom has hit me whether I jumped or not.

I’ve been told recently that I need to grieve, to move myself higher up my priority list, to start doing things that make me happy again. Okay. But how do I do that? (Writing has been suggested, and I’m feeling shitty enough to go with that thought, hence this post.)

It seems to take far too much energy to talk to people, to explain, so I shut down and stay home. If I lived somewhere else, I could join a support group or go into therapy, but those aren’t options here.

It’s so frustrating being this sad and not knowing how to grieve.

Some random thoughts …

On my facebook page this morning, a photo of Jaren posted by his friend Francisco under the heading: He’s still here. In the photo, he’s playing the guitar that now sits downstairs in my office hopefully protected from this climate by the case on which he had written in duct tape, “No talent”.

I started crying one day, and Cj said to me: “Mommy, you’re sad. Did Jaren die again?”

When Ernesto is here I feel better … or maybe I’m just diverted … but he’s not now, and it’s worrying that I’m so crap at being alone.

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RWP: “Forty predators of press freedom” … and what’s really dangerous (hint: ends with Palin)

Posted in History, Island life, My Chinese Checkered Past, Seychelles, Smarten up, The USA from the outside in, World politics, tagged , , on May 3, 2010| 7 Comments »

Confession: I was a junkie.

No, I’m not talking drugs here … although given the decades I was misspending my youth I was far from circumspect, but that’s not what this post is about.

This is about news. I was hooked on it.

Starting in high school, I have written for newspapers, worked in TV newsrooms, yapped away on radio and made money keeping track of media coverage for companies, lawyers and folks whose babies won beauty contests. I’ve followed murder cases and exploding Fords, sticking 45-second clips onto reels that run for days … in the process stamping permanent images of mayhem to the inside of my eyelids.

For much of my adult life, mornings didn’t begin until the radio clicked on at about the same time the newspaper hit the doorstep, and my coffee always came with opinions.

Rehab for me was a small island in a big ocean a long way from everywhere else where there was one TV station that aired 5 minutes of news in English … didn’t matter, since I had no TV … and a newspaper that consisted of 8 pages. And … there’s no news on Sunday.

Cold turkey is ugly, and I suffered, right up to the time I shook the yoke of the constant flow of information on world happenings and it dawned on me that horrible shit can happen without me having to know about it.

I have learned to be a social imbiber of news, taking in what interests, educates or elucidates and allows me to participate in dialog with others likewise motivated to keep up with some of what is going on beyond the inside of our own front doors.

This being the case, this year’s Reporters Without Borders report listing “Forty predators of press freedom” has me tipsy enough to actually put a blog post together.

It’s a disturbing read:

There are 40 names on this year’s list of Predators of Press Freedom – 40 politicians, government officials, religious leaders, militias and criminal organisations that cannot stand the press, treat it as an enemy and directly attack journalists. They are powerful, dangerous, violent and above the law.

There are few surprises, as it doesn’t take an article addict to have the dope on regimes like those in North Korea and Burma and know that journalistic freedom doesn’t even blip on the radar of rights denied. Zimbabwe, Russia, China, Saudi Arabia, Cuba … ditto. Spain was a bit of a surprise, but that’s an ETA thing, apparently, like Italy’s issues with organized crime taking a toll on truth-telling in print or broadcast.

Personally, I’m not at all happy to see Mexico named as among the most dangerous countries for journalists, having had 62 killed in the last decade, and I’m happy Ernesto is a musician, not a reporter.

But back to my recovering news junkie status and how I’m dealing with this infusion of inclusion in the goings-on.

Strong arm tactics, murder, intimidation … yeah, yeah, yeah. Reporters will balls have dealt with this since Grag covered Yurk’s attempt to take over the cave by hiding the mammoth meat.

Quite frankly, all the predators described by RWB don’t scare me half as much as Fox News.

It’s not vicious attacks on reporters that will crumble the fourth estate to dust, but pretty people passing palatable pap to the people … the vapid to the vacuous.

Far more insidious and likely to put an end to journalism as we once knew it … Sarah Palin clothed as credible.

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Why I’m not writing …

Posted in Island life, Seychelles, Writers, Writing for a living, Writing for fun, tagged , , , on April 23, 2010| Leave a Comment »

This post would be more correctly titled “Why I’m not Writing for Myself”, since I am writing loads, but for others.

Social media management is one fragment of my fragmented life these days, so I’m facebooking and Tweeting and such anonymously for others, and find I don’t at all mind the mindlessness of pretending to be someone else who has something to gain from glib verbosity. In fact, I rather enjoy plucking words from air that I’m not wed to … that’s the words, not the air, since breathing still commands my days and nights.

For those who haven’t sussed out the diff between my English and Ernesto’s, I patrol his pages and respond to all varieties of the sycophantic and moony-eyed, as well as the truly-impressed-by-genius, who post.

(sycophante, or via Latin from Greek sukophantēs ‘informer,’ from sukon ‘fig’ + phainein ‘to show’ ; the association with informing against the illegal exportation of figs from ancient Athens (recorded by Plutarch) is not substantiated.)

I do likewise … but sans the figs and the emotional attachment … with other sites, to some advantage to all.

I should also be turning my attention to the fiction that stews and brews and begs fruition, but life gets in the way these days. The Spicemans nag daily. and notes, thoughts and more drift constantly upward, only to be squashed under drifts of real life.

So …

Could I be writing about law suits and the feckless ex and real estate sales and dog-chewed bumpers and my dealings with Cleo (Queen of Denial) and the bazillion ways I can’t process Jaren, and my mother’s decent, and the Kon Tiki of fam issues, and being stuck on a rock and needing a break?

Mon pa think so, mon ker.

I hold hope that some Vesuvius erupts … although this week that would have to be an Eyjafjallajokull … forcing a disgorging of petrified prose newly molten, steaming and demanding flow, but it ain’t happening today.

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Seychelles Property for Sale

Posted in Expat Living, Island life, Seychelles, tagged , , , , on April 8, 2010| 5 Comments »

Thinking that a change just might be in order, I’m considering selling up. With that in mind, I set up a website.

Here’s the link:

Seychelles Property

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From bat ears to bird penises …

Posted in Island life, science, Sex, Seychelles, tagged , , on January 27, 2010| Leave a Comment »

There is so much cool stuff going on in the science news today that I’m giving myself a break and not going anywhere near the flap over face veils in France and the UK. Not that I don’t have an opinion or twelve. I’d simply so much rather focus on little tiny hairs in bat ears and such.

For a population of animals known for acute hearing, the bats in my jack fruit tree have been raising a ruckus audible to an aging rocker with major ear damage, but these, of course, are fruit bats … Pteropus seychellensis seychellensis, locally known as sousouri … not their smaller insectivorous cousins.

Since fruit tends to hang around rather than flit furtively, sousouri haven’t been working on their echolocation skills, but it’s looking like a couple of parallel universes have managed convergent evolution.

Scientists have found a striking similarity in the DNA that enables some bats and dolphins to echolocate.

A key gene that gives their ears the ability to detect high-frequency sound has undergone the exact same changes over time in both creatures.

The researchers report their findings in the journal Current Biology.

It may be the first time that identical genetics has been shown to underpin the evolution of similar characteristics in very different organisms.

And how cool is that?

Although most of us would find a sudden gift of echolocation more than a bit distracting, the hearing we do have comes in very handy, even when what we’re listening to is a load of bollocks.

Seems a tendency to keep it short is an evolutionary choice made by many primates, and although the article is flawed, it is interesting.

Scientists found that macaques use short calls far more often than lengthier vocalisations.

Humans also do this: the words that we use most often, such as “a”, “of” and “the”, do not take long to say.

The fact that we both share this vocal trait could shed more light on the origin of human language, the team writes in the journal Biology Letters.

Although the report on the study must oversimplify … and with the research credited to Dr. Semple, I suppose that makes sense … I will assume that the work went much deeper and resulted in more less-obvious science than is written by the BBC.

For a new turn on the old “monkey see, monkey do”, take a look at what happens when monkey shoots.

The world’s first film shot entirely by chimpanzees is to be broadcast by the BBC as part of a natural history documentary.

The apes created the movie using a specially designed chimp-proof camera given to them by primatologists.

The film-making exercise is part of a scientific study into how chimpanzees perceive the world and each other.

My hat is off to whoever managed to make a chimp-proof camera!

And just because common wisdom says that sex sells … and I do like drawing readers to the blog … I’ll end with the world’s most promiscuous bird, proving size really doesn’t matter …

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