Catastrophe

The Pied Pilferer was at it again last night. He'd popped in for a snack during the afternoon, but I disturbed him (and him, me) though I wasn't fast enough to trap him. I heard the catflap door go again at about 2.30am and, having set it to In Only, leaped out of bed, disturbing skinny old Toby, who was snoring peacefully next to me, under the covers, head on the pillow.

The PP is no fool, however: the bang was his insouciant exit, having sneaked in quietly, had his fill of expensive biscuit and, no doubt sneeringly, deftly hooked open the flap with his claws to make good his escape. And this time, to add insult to injury, he sprayed before he left, so that I returned, thwarted, to bed to lie awake for hours a) plotting his downfall and b) choking on the powerful pong of cat-pee.

It's looking like a win for the feline at this stage. My only chance is, having moved our cats' food to the other end of the house, if he finds his way to it, I'm more likely to be able to get between him and the exit - if so, it's going to be a spectacular stand-off, and I wouldn't put any money on the outcome. (Note to self: Buy more Bandaids.)

Cat pee. I once went to a lion park up north that wasn't officially open to the public yet because the animals weren't in their proper enclosures, and were still in smaller pens with only one layer of netting between us and them. I did resist the temptation to poke my finger through the wire, but managed to come off worse anyway when the very stately lion - on which Aslan in The Lion, the Witch etc movie was modelled - looked at me disdainfully, turned around, lifted his tail, and let fly.

"Oooh! Buy a lottery ticket: that's very good luck!" said the Lion Man (who, incidentally, had refused an interview, saying he wasn't interested in media coverage - and about a year later had his own TV series). Yeah, right. The cats and the dog weren't very impressed when I got home, that's for sure.

This tiger cub at a zoo in Kuala Lumpur was much friendlier - or would have been, I'm sure, if he'd been awake. I hope he wasn't drugged...

The curse continues....

News from Western Australia that there are bush fires burning out of control on the outskirts of Perth, moving at 100m an hour, with 40 homes and a bridge destroyed and many more threatened in strong and unpredictable winds. I'm going there next month. Perhaps you're thinking this is just an Australian thing, hogging the headlines with the floods, the killer cyclone and all? I think not.

Meanwhile, no word of any sort of disaster from Malaysia, where I was going to be travelling in a couple of weeks' time, but backed out for various reasons. Case closed, I think.

Stepping up to the task

It's not raining, and I'm not at school so there was no excuse this morning not to resume my regular walking circuit. The high point - in the literal sense only - is the flight of 132 steps up through the bush from the beach which I once thought would supply my Rocky moment when I was preparing to walk the Inca Trail, but which I now realise will only ever make me breathless with, er, breathlessness. But puffing's good.

While travelling involves an ironic amount of sitting and standing around, there's also far more walking than is usual in one's day-to-day life, and inevitably lots of steps to climb. High points - literal, again - are part of the tourist's duty when exploring new places, city or countryside, and are often the metaphorical high point of a visit too.

When that's the Empire State Building or the London Eye or the Eiffel Tower or the Petronas Towers, that's one thing. But when it's the Kings Canyon Rim Walk (a glorious place, despite its somewhat insalubrious name) or the Inca Trail or the Milford Track or the Scott Memorial in Edinburgh, well, that's quite another, because the only way to get to the top is by putting one foot above the other.

It's always worth it, for the view and the personal satisfaction, and the knowledge that it's an achievement that deserves a bit of a sugary reward afterwards. Doing it the hard way also makes you feel more in touch with the environment, like in Malaysia at the Batu Caves where once a year 100,000 entranced pilgrims climb the 272 steps to honour Vishnu, many of them with weights on hooks pushed through their skin and tongues. It makes carrying merely a camera, even in 35 degree heat, even past bold monkeys, seem like a holiday.

Which it is, of course - but one it's wise to train for.

Go fish

There was a kingfisher sitting on the powerline facing into our garden this morning. I cleaned out the pond yesterday so the water's not (as) green any more and the goldfish are visible. Coincidence? I think not. I've never caught one in the act, but they've hung around here in the past and fish have gone missing, so that's good enough for me. Just because the evidence is circumstantial, it doesn't mean they're not guilty.

I have seen a kingfisher fishing from a dam in a paddock and I know how quick they are - flash of blue, splash of water and there they are back on the branch with a beakful of wriggle. Pretty impressive - but not as spectacular as gannets diving like arrows (so fast, as from a cross-bow) from a great height into the sea or, more colourfully, Galapagos boobies (which are also gannets). Or pelicans, which look so ungainly and cumbersome in flight, but are nimble enough to do the business in the water. Speaking of which, here is a couple of exhibitionist boobies.

Or sea eagles, improbably big and feathery for this game, but equally efficient - I've watched them on the Katherine River in the NT, and near Langkawi in Malaysia. You can go for a boat trip there where they call out to the eagles and kites that are just dots way up over the limestone peaks, and they come swooping down to scoop up fish that are thrown into the water. Not very eco, maybe, but it's astonishing to see the accuracy of the stoop, and the strength they show in climbing back into the air again.

Though, considering my biggest goldfish are just about the size of the kingfisher, that would be some feat too. One I don't want to see happen, I should add.

"Remember, remember...

... the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot."

It's Guy Fawkes today and tonight there will be lots of bangs and crackles in the sky and trembling animals inside, including our Labrador who's a disgrace to all gundogs everywhere. I don't think that many kids now remember about Fawkes and the plan to blow up the Houses of Parliament - not here, anyway - and it's more usually known as Bonfire Night. It's a damp morning and no doubt firemen up and down the country are crossing their fingers for discouragingly steady rain tonight.

The best fireworks display I ever saw was in Kuala Lumpur, on Merdeka Day, their independence celebration - something Fawkes would have sympathised with, I guess, breaking free from British rule.

It was a huge day: it began with a parade that went on for hours -

>>> Involving 24,000 participants, it included 12,500 marching past where we sat awed by the sheer scale of the production. We had been expecting a fuss as the entire city was draped with flags and banners, but even the huge image projected onto the skyscraper opposite was upstaged by the living flag in Merdeka Square. Made up of hundreds of children dressed from head to toe in red, white, blue and yellow, it occasionally morphed seamlessly into other patriotic shapes. Behind them in the grandstand were more child professionals, who with an arsenal of coloured cloths, streamers, pompoms and banners flawlessly spelled out messages and executed complicated Mexican waves despite sitting in 30 degree sunshine for the whole three hours.

It was a phenomenal display: after the arrival of the sultans, princes, presidents, prime ministers and Malaysia’s own king and queen, there were children singing and dancing, 1000 drummers, military personnel marching with rifles, missile launchers and huge tanks (note to Helen: don’t fall out with Malaysia), veteran soldiers, vintage cars, decorated floats, fireworks, dog handlers and mounted police, bands with lots of brass and a remarkable number of bagpipes, plus contingents representing industry, commerce and the professions all vying to have the most colourful costumes: those in the blue and silver Flash Gordon outfits got my vote. Whenever it began to feel as though the marchers were surely circling round behind us for another go, the pattern was broken by a fly-over of heavy-duty helicopters dangling flags or MiGs and Hornets screaming overhead trailing coloured vapour trails as they did barrel rolls and other aerobatics. Amazed, I turned to our guide Hamida and said, “I’ve never seen anything on this scale before, have you?” and she replied, “Oh yes. You should see when the Formula One drivers come to town: now that’s what I call a parade.”

[Pub. Press 26/11/07]

And that night, over the city, with the Petronas Towers stunningly stark against the black, amazing fireworks scribbled the sky with colour.

Today is also my father's birthday. Or was. Miss you, Dad.