Commune

Friday 30th December 1983

Yesterday my ill-health put the mockers on (If someone or something puts the mockers on something, they prevent it from happening or from being successful. To thwart someone's efforts or cause them to have bad luck.) our trip to Cape Cormorin. Again, we ignored the 06:15 hrs. alarm as George was on the verge of vomiting.

I had breakfast and returned to find him out of bed but feeling lethargic. He forced down some breakfast and we both plodded up to the bank like a couple of drugged zombies. The Central Bank of India branch at Kovalum was surprisingly quick and efficient for an Indian bank.

We called into the wooden shed which served as the Post Office before tottering back to the beach. We paused along the way at one of the hotels on the road which was playing David Bowie’s “Space Oddity” on a massive cassette player. We refreshed ourselves with a couple of drinks before returning to the beach. We hoped that the sea would revive us, and it did, a bit.

We read our books and dined on egg curry at a beach bar and watched some middle-aged Germans and a “guru” making idiots of themselves at an obscure ball game. The afternoon passed as we went in and out of the ocean, dried off in the sun, walked up and down the beach and read books.

It started off as an apathetic day, but we forced ourselves to do things and had quite an enjoyable time. The Sergeant’s son had been getting on with the construction of the Mark 2 Shangri-La which was a circular affair with a thatched roof.

Also, some hippies were forming a “commune” in the long shed nearby. Qualifications for joining this select band included long hair, severe emaciation, a Jesus-look beard, “Jesus boot” sandals and a gormless vacant expression. In essence you had to look like Jesus on hunger strike.

Some children were taunting a monkey which was attached to a tree on a chain near the beach and a frustrated tethered buffalo made abortive charges at passers-by. During our evening reading session, I looked up from my book and, like a dreadful apparition Mr Magoo was sitting opposite. His squat toady face stared through bottle-bottom thick glasses (spectacles).

Some of his old branchers (friends and acquaintances) joined him and he launched into “I had an incredible experience…”, at which point we paid up and fled into the night. We continued reading at the Black Cat Café on the beach until I could hardly keep my eyes open and then we turned in for the night. As we passed the Shangri-La Mr Magoo’s bass rumble indicated that he was still holding forth, giving listeners the benefit of his experience.