I feared the security guard wanted to run through the myriad of belongings we’d packed in our numerous bags for a trip spanning a whole day, but thankfully, he only reached forward in a friendly fashion and handed each of us a wooden plank.
yeah, but it had some kind of writing on it (I’m sorry, I don’t do pictures, the following is purely informative):
etc.
Our company comprising 75% word-people, spelling and editing errors were gleefully jumped upon. Our pleasure being considered (or so I thought) vital for publicity, the jumping upon was treated with due reverence by our hostess. She immediately called up management and complained to them, boasting that “my journalists” were very observant. If you do take the trouble to read the thing though (wait, that’s if you take the trouble to read even THIS), you may notice its rather wittily (and repetitively) put.
Also brave:
So from the start you know, these guys are unusually serious about the nature thing. And then the first five minutes of entering the place:
Things are quite simple. No fancy works of art you’re forced to contemplate and sound educated on, no painfully glaring colors to offend you, no alienation. The entrance is bare, and I’m seeing right through the reception area to the pool and the reserve beyond. Chaaya Wild is nearly a part of the park. Staff in dull green and brown safari shirts welcome me with a blessing, “ayubowan”, holding the traditional bulath kola wrapped around a white lotus in folded palms.
“ooh, nice! is this the nil manel?” one of our company asks. I worry that the question, coming from a journalist who doesn’t know that the national flower is a pale bluish purple, is setting the tone for my stay. [I might have guessed better, I suppose, considering conversation during the trip took vast turns in terms of topic, including: sex, marriages, breakups, affairs and even other related scandals!]
The cucumber juice I asked for has arrived with astonishing amounts of salt in it, and while a waiter gets me another (the manager Teddy - not Roosevelt, he doesn’t know him – has asked me fifty times whether I’ll have the same or home-made ginger beer!) I pretend to get a phone call and leave the comely gathering of visitors-just-arrived.
There is a thalagoi paetiya soakin’ up some suuuuun [the numerous ‘u’s signify a “gangsta” tone. please note and re-read the phrase “soakin’ up some suuuuun”. aloud even, if you like. thank you] at the poolside. He doesn’t take too well to being nearly trampled by an exhausted reporter absent-mindedly talking to her imaginary friend, so scampers off a little way to show off his/her moves. No really, he/she can actually stand on his/her hind legs supported by his/her tail! (I’m trying to make a hint about certain feminist conceptions/misconceptions/insanities here, please understand this.)
The pool is surrounded by cement “sleepers” that are accented by the soothing dull green of the water. It’s not dirt, it’s the tile. Possibly the most striking thing for me about the whole place is that the water is not turned a bright blue or green by the tiles in order to catch attention, but allowed to blend in. Apologies for sounding cliché, but the word is “natural”. Channa Daswatte not only has an incredibly good-looking protege, but manages (one is tempted to say occasionally, upon remembering Chaaya Tranz) to do good work.The color-scheme is sweet-soothing, and only when you’re chilled out enough to lie back on one of these funny and uncomfortable chairs in the lounge that tilt you backbackback and look up at the ceiling [because you don’t have a choice but to lean backbackback] do you notice the flashing batik-work. brilliant.
My cucumber drink is BACK! This time with extra sugar instead of salt – does anyone know why simply cucumber is not good enough!? Close upon it arrives my key wrapped in ivory paper and adorned by a pretty little yellow ranavana flower.
I am running to my chalet, cold water and a bed!
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