If I ruled the world (Nouméa)

As I sit here listening to Vikem Arman I'm finding it difficult to gather the energy to write today's post and I'm aware I didn't even complete last night's effort. Pathetic really. I'm not sure if it was the morning exercise, the rosé that followed, the anticipation of champagne in the near future or the fact that I'm now really, really old. Remember when 60 was like, a near death experience - even worse than owning a Camry? I turned 60 today. Eligible for a Senior's Card. Well, I would be if I wasn't still gainfully employed. Anyway, my long-suffering reader, enough self-indulgence I have a blog to write. And of course, my blogs are never self-indulgent. Smirk.

Last evening, we decided to enjoy the fine dining option in the resort - Le Hippocampe Restaurant. That translates as The Seahorse. There was a lot of seafood, but no seahorse. I was ok with that. I imagine they are quite bony. As a fine dining venue it has to live with the juxtaposition that we are on an island and staying in a resort (looking at you pretentious Hamilton Island - epic fail). So, there were children, despite being no children's menu. I really wanted to see what they were going to eat. And then there were the platform sneakers and track suits - yes, he could have bought and sold me, but he had no class.

Random arty shot

The food was interesting and creative. Don't try this at home. Lamb with banana. Oh yeah. Scallops with pineapple chutney. You get the picture. It worked. Well at least the scallops, we didn't try the lamb. What we had was delightful and perfectly matched with a French Marsanne. A much under-rated grape variety. 

It was then off to the bar for an aperitif and some music. I tried ordering Zambucca. What? Then I tried for something aniseed? Hennessy? They asked. No. Ok, I give up. Cointreau? Oui, but non, I believe it was Grand Marnier. Yes. French and orange but NOT Cointreau. Ah well.

Finally to the present. Today dawned grey and blustery. It is probably the worst morning weather we've experienced. My day commenced far more positively, but that is none of your business. The breakfast restaurant was crowded, they confused freshly pressed OJ with apple juice, there were NO fried tomatoes ... first world problems. They get a lot very right here, but the little things, the island culture, tends to erode the good and make it, well, bad.

Post-breakfast it was straight to Bar Latitude 22. No. Not for an early morning drink, but for an espresso coffee. A real coffee. Not made with pre-packed plastic pods. If, my decaffeinated reader you who think that is good coffee - stop reading my blog. No. Really. Stop. Go to a café and have a real coffee. If you think pod coffee is good, you are not my friend.

The Cultural Centre off in the distance

I digress. After espresso, we headed to the Parc Zoologique and Forestier. (Warning: bird and plant photos following). By taxi of course. It costs around 2000xpf or $27 aud. It appears taxis are the only way to get around but on this trip, we had a lovely driver who asked if we would like the air conditioning on in the car and then proceeded to point out the tower on the mountain towards which we were heading.  

Drinking spot of choice.

He asked could he take a one minute detour to show us the view from the tower before depositing us outside the park entrance.  Bien sûr. The 360° view was great although around the base of the tower was not so pretty - seems this is a gathering spot for the island youth who want to party into oblivion, man, - some of whom were still there after Saturday night despite it being mid-Sunday morning. I was keen to take some photos, the view really was spectacular. The driver was equally keen not to stop the car. OK. I get it. Not a tourist destination.

Jayne was indulging me, taking me to the Forest Park, but it is my birthday. The national bird, Kagu or Cagu, the spelling seemed variable, is native to NC only and obviously I was keen to see it.

The park is spread across a hillside overlooking the cultural centre. It weaves in and around exhibits, largely avian, although there were some monkeys and a mini ferme. Don't think Taronga petting zoo, all animals were behind fences. That really set the tone for the park and the day. In an age of ecological sustainability (unless you vote Liberal in Australia or for Trump in the US, in which case ... never mind, you wouldn't be reading my blog) the park was a throwback, almost to the '70s. Where one might expect a walk-in aviary to allow the inhabitants the necessary freedoms to fly and breed, there was a succession of, well, backyard aviaries. As a former backyard bird breeder I'm the last to criticise, but my aviary was bigger than some in the park. And to keep hawks and falcons in captivity where they can not even fly for more than a few metres is wrong.

Yes, St Helena Waxbills again

We wandered the hillside looking at birds, with constant call of peacocks in the background. They were in plague proportions, white as well as the regular colour. The layout of the park was challenging, even for consummate map readers like Jayne. We negotiated the bends and the backward turns and saw the Kagu. We even saw budgies, galahs, cockatoos, lorikeets and other Aussie nationals.

The Kagu

There were many turning points, forks stuck in the road, and time grabbed you by the wrist, to direct you where to go, but we weren't in a hurry and chose our own path. Jayne was with me, so it was not the road less travelled (unless you remember the red path vs the blue path at Cinque Terre??). [Hahaha, that was a Jayne edit, the full story can be read, and it's worth a read - language warning - if you go to the blog index] Instead, we selected the Promenade with view. With what? View? Oh. You mean through the mesh fence? Sure, that's a view. Sort of. Three vantage points. We found one. Not so good.

I get the picture, but there was no toilet in sight.

Back to the hotel by lunch time and after the heat and the walking, I was looking forward to a beer. They were setting up for Vikem so service was even slower than usual. No beer. the moment had passed. Rosé and a bowl of frites please, as we watched the kite surfers scudding along the lagoon and the eviction of non Le Méridien patrons. We had our access wrist bands safely tucked into our pockets but were not asked to produce them despite watching a number of people denied entry or evicted because they didn't have a ticket or wrist band.

Sorry to have left you with your thoughts my patient reader I needed to open the champagne. You didn't notice? Oh, d'accord. The beat from Vikem's music is getting more urgent as the afternoon wears on and I need something to help me keep pace. There is still  no one dancing. Just saying.

Where was I? Oh yes, listening to the electro music. A group sat down near us. Well, two men. Carrying their beers with G&Ts for the girls. Thoughtful. The patriarch not so much. He sat down directly opposite me and threw one leg up and over the other onto his knee. A combination of his excessive weight, his shorts and the breeze provided me with a view that no one really wants. Not even his wife, I imagine. Nice white jocks though. Didn't think anyone wore those anymore.

Then he started in his East London accent, "if I ruled the world". Oh dear God, take me now. Obviously this inspired fear and today's title. Thankfully the breeze and Vikem's 'music' drowned out his manifesto.  Mine would have opened with: 1. All fat middled-aged British men must wear long trousers.

And so as the afternoon breeze takes us into evening, Vikem is still doing what DJs/electro artists do, (allegedly) ripping off other people's music and pretending to be creative by mixing it man! (50 ways to leave your lover, all I am saying ... and that wasn't the only recognisable tune) The crowd numbers have not built as the sun begins its journey to the other hemisphere and still there is no one dancing.

As I contemplate whether I will add to this post later, I leave you with a picture that sums up the world of Donald Trump.

In case you are wondering, yes, it's looking into a mirror.

OK, so I'm still here, it's 6:15pm. The music has been pulsating for over 4 hours and the dancers are more sparse than hairs on my palm. I'm now beginning to understand why it is necessary for people who attend electro dance festivals, raves, if you will, to take drugs. Although Vikem's more middle eastern influenced music seems to get more people up and moving. If the purpose of music is sex, this crowd is in real trouble, unless they staying at the resort. The tide is in. There is no beach. The garden is too well manicured to hide one amorous couple. There is security at every entry and exit point (i'm smirking smugly). Temptation. Frustration. So bad it makes him cry. It is going to be wet and messy people. Happily, it finishes at 8pm so most of the mess will be elsewhere.

And finally, nearly 5 hours after the music began, or is it a social experiment? The white boys in the audience have consumed sufficient alcohol to make them think they have the moves. The impending cover of darkness, well current twilight, helps. Suddenly people are dancing and the show is almost over. I've always assumed this is what Ibeza is like, some sort of schoolies for 'adults', a cruise that doesn't leave shore.

We are setting sail for dinner. If there is anything of further interest it will be recorded for the annuls of posterity in the next post.

à demain

ps: it's a wrap at 9:04pm despite the chanting. Amazing what darkness and alcohol can do for enthusiasm. OK, he's back again. Enough. I'm posting.