Saturday 18^th November

On Wednesday at the Republic we discussed, amongst other more weighty matters, the very important topic of outboard engine theft.

My brother Pete had the engine stolen from his tinny a year or so ago – I think I wrote about this sad loss at the time. And Meriloy reminded us that she and Richard also lost their motor, within a week or so of this theft. Recently Richard told some of their neighbours to be careful. They had their tinny parked out in the cul de sac and the very day after Richard gave them this solemn warning…the motor was nicked. Meriloy thinks she has noticed a large removal van in the neighbourhood, possibly out to collect outboard motors to order. She said, very seriously, “I took note of the truck because I am forensically influenced.” I thought this was such a funny turn of expression. She is indeed forensically influenced. Richard brought home many a forensic tale from his years in the Tasmania police force, and I know that she has read many MANY forensic thrillers in her time. So maybe she should be employed as a consultant motor-finder!

India #20

We had planned to have a couple of weeks in Goa and the region, to have some time relaxing and hanging out on the beaches. We did all of that, and we did relax a lot. But…the monsoon had not stopped, as it was supposed to. It kept on PELTING down. Thick, heavy, warm unrelenting. My purple umbrella was VERY necessary. I still got very wet, but not as wet – ie drowned –as I would have been without it. I don’t think any of us minded at all. It was all so novel, this sort of rain, and as for the beach, well, we have beaches in Australia… And the Arabian Sea was so wild and terrifying, with strong rips this way and that way and big waves coming right at you. Pete and I did swim a few times – more re this later – but it was all very risky. Nicer just sloshing around in the rain, reading our books, having naps, and sitting in beachfront restaurants eating yummy food.

One afternoon I splished and splashed my way down the streets to the internet café a kilometre or so away. The roads were small rivers, running bright orange with iron-rich mud. On my way back, I was accosted by an elderly Indian lady, in a beautiful bright sari down to her ankles. She was very disapproving. “Why are your feet so dirty? And your ankles?” she said, glaring below my sarong at my orange feet. I wanted to say, “But why AREN’T yours dirty?” but there was no point; Indian women seem impervious to dirt. Their long skirts and trousers are always spotless in spite of the filth and the mud and the poo. I just had to smile apologetically and say, “Ummm….because I am Australian, unused to coping with monsoonmud!”

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