I skipped breakfast and popped a couple of Lomotil tablets as my stomach was still bad and I had the shits. George and Martin returned from the Shangri-La appalled by our fellow travellers, especially the tubby Yankie hippie who looked like (the now disgraced) Rolf Harris and was travelling in order to “find himself”.
George set off on a sortie into Trivandrum and Martin and I hit the beach. The sun was blazing for a short while and the sea was very turbulent, chucking us about mercilessly. The sky clouded over and we retreated to our room, read our books for a while, and then walked into Kovalum so that Martin could post his postcards.
We had to wait for the Post Office to reopen after lunch and we sat on a pile of logs chatting. Martin was disillusioned with India and was not much looking forward to Australia. We discussed job opportunities in Australia, but it was a futile exercise as we could only wait and see what opportunities arose when we got there.
I got some lovely peanut brittle, which was a treat, and we wandered back passed the industrious quarry where a thin wall of rock remained from where the miners had attacked an outcrop from both sides.
I had a shave and we both had a siesta until George returned, hammering on the door to wake us up. George and I went swimming in the sea, which was still running heavy.
At 17:30 hrs. I returned to library to exchange “The Contract” for “A Kiss before Dying” by Ira Levin. A Kiss Before Dying is a 1953 novel written by Ira Levin. It won the 1954 Edgar Award, for Best First Novel.
Now a modern crime classic, Levin's story centres on a charming, intelligent man who will stop at nothing, even murder, to get where he wants to go. His problem is a pregnant woman who loves him. The solution involves desperate measures. The book has been adapted twice for the cinema: first in 1956 and later in 1991.
As darkness fell, we waged war against squadrons of mosquitos that invaded our room. If you smashed one while it was in the process of drinking from your body, then there was a disquieting amount of blood spattered about.
At 19:00 hrs. we went into the Shangri-La restaurant and I took a chance on some scrambled egg as my stomach was a bit more stable. We read our books peacefully until the tropical tranquillity was shattered by the gleeful twittering that signalled the return of the “Cindy’s”, who we had further nicknamed “No Neck” and “Pixie”.
“It was raining”, said No Neck, a harsh guttural statement, “zo ve hav kom bak”. They soon settled into their old routine, with Pixie bobbing and animated, wide-eyed and rabbiting enthusiastically. No Neck kept up a supporting role in a base monotone. Ambi, chapati and roti were in high spirits, giggling and buggering about with us. The evening chorus of insects thrummed vibrantly in the darkness.
We turned in at 22:00 hrs. and George and I dozed off to the sound of Martin cursing and slapping “flies” as he tossed and turned on his hard bed.
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