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Trouble in Paradise?
"Hey, what's for supper?" Sharon asked as the light show faded. "Oranges!" I answered. Dinner consisted of eating as many of the oranges I had filched as possible. Seedless, sweet and juicy, I devoured twelve before calling it quits (and only then because my tongue started to pinch). Having maxed out our taste buds on oranges, we returned to the seaside and stretched out on our form-fitting rocks to ingest a bag full of chocolate cookies. Peering up at the myriad of stars beginning to dot the black sky, I asked, "Isn't this great?" Sharon had to admit that, although our site lacked showers, it possessed an intimacy no amount of money could buy. Eventually, out of cookies - and nursing severe cases of boulder-butt - we hobbled off to bed. In the morning, I was delighted to learn we had finally chosen a site that received morning sun. Typically, the spot we pitched our tent automatically became the last area to be bathed in sunlight. (One morning, we had even awoken to sunshine all around us, while our tent, shaded by a large tree, was still covered in frost.) We frequently began riding immediately upon arising, just so we could warm ourselves. The early rays quickly dissipated any overnight dew. I ate breakfast (more oranges), then traipsed over to my Flintstone chair to gather inspiration from the idyllic sea view. It looked like the perfect day to practice our slow-down-and-live philosophy. The sky was a flawless turquoise; a soft breeze filtered through surrounding maquis, swaying long-stemmed, pink flowers like ballerinas on tiptoes. Small fishing boats puttered sluggishly in the languid sea. Everything was calm and relaxed. I could have dozed, but I was a couple of entries behind in my Journal and I wanted to catch up. Inspired by the natural beauty, I took out my pen and got to work. The silence was suddenly shattered as two jet fighters screamed overhead! Whooshing towards the western horizon, they abruptly banked into a steep climb amid two explosion-like rumbles. I assumed they had broken the sound barrier and I was hearing sonic booms. But, as I continued to watch, mushroom-shaped plumes of gray smoke rose into the blue sky. They were dropping live bombs! So much for tranquillity, I thought, as the fighters' high-pitched squeals pierced my serenity in yet another bombing maneuver. Trouble in Paradise? What could they be preparing for? I wondered. Often, on cycling tours we felt we were so removed from real-world communications World War III could have broken out and we would be oblivious to the fact. I looked at our map and saw demarcated in the island's south, adjacent to our position, was a large cordoned-off military area. Then, I remembered: The evening before, as we had paralleled the militarized zone, we had noticed camouflaged concrete bunkers hidden in the hills, half-buried amongst the rocks and bushes, their thin rectangular gun slits stared blankly as we passed, like pupil-less alien eyes. Perhaps our island paradise was not as placid as it first appeared. By the time I caught up on my Journal entries, it was nearly noon. The hot sun felt good on my body, the postcard scenery was striking, and, since the fighter jets had departed, serenity and harmony reigned supreme. I was so totally relaxed, enjoying our halcyon location that I didn't want to leave. "Do we have enough food and water to make it through today?" I asked. "Yep," Sharon answered. "We have enough oranges for at least another day." I spent the day in resplendent languorous lassitude. At sunset, we descended to the beach and marvelled as Sol put on another golden display, again silhouetting the sentinel-like watchtower. To end our enchanted day, the glowing orb plummeted into the sea as if to wash itself. I had to chuckle. With thoughts like that, maybe I too had gone too long without a shower? |
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