Fraternité
5 - 12 Nov, Ian
The day after I wrote the last entry I returned
for what would be my last dive in the lagoon. During the dive, which lasted 45
minutes, my ears seemed permanently blocked and my mask was full of water more
often than it was full of air. When we ascended my eyes were sore and puffy and
remained so for a couple of days and it was even longer before I lost the
sensation that my head was still full of sea water. I decided to give the
diving a rest for a while.
The dolphins continue to crest around in the channel by our pension, and from time to time they flip right out and do air twirls for us; but they haven't (yet) returned to the level of activity of our first couple of days. At night we also see sharks swimming past, right by the deck. They're little black tips, no more than three or four feet in length; very smart and cool. One night we saw five of them at the same time. Last night Heidi and I saw an eel that drifted in and out with the waves in a wriggling frenzy before holing out for the evening in a little cave within the igneous rock in front of our terrace. The most exotic sighting, though, was of a pair of eagle rays that spent a while languidly swishing up and down the edge of the deeper water. They're bigger than the sting rays that we see every day in the shallows of the lagoon and they have beautiful white markings against the black of their backs. I don't have any very good photo's of them but this snap gives you an idea:
Occasionally I've been concerned that some of the visitors here aren't staying long enough to get a good dolphin sighting, but the dolphins always seem to do some sort of show just before people take off. Since I last wrote all of the visitors have been French couples, and I'm afraid they've started to blur into one another. They all come for a few nights either from or on the way to a stop of similar length on one of the other islands. Often the other destination will be Bora Bora, which everyone complains about ("it's too commercialised") but which equally many (and often the same people) visit. These French couples mooch around the pension between dives and take one of the two most common excursions ("Ah, le pique-nique! c'est superbe!"), where they marvel at the way that the boat guy will pick up a poor little shark by the fin and sling it around for the amusement of the small band of passengers.
The only books that we've seen the French couples reading have been by Anglo-American authors: Agatha Christie, Robert Ludlum. They're sweet: they stare at sunsets holding hands with each other until they get bored, which, like people drifting past a painting in a gallery, usually lasts about as long as it takes to peel a banana. They're also perfectly friendly and polite, although not once this week have I heard any of them express an interesting travel fact or a surprising opinion. Paula referred to them as the Club Med set, which is about right (Club Med sounds fine, but it's not what we want right now). For the past few nights we've sat at a table on our own, though in a couple of days' time I'm sure that we'll be drawn back to the company of others.
Some of the French couples are staying with compatriots working on the islands, which have the air of a French colony. Like most colonies and dependencies, the role of the French here is double-edged. On the one hand, they provide an astonishing level of financial support: French Polynesia receives the highest per capita level of overseas aid of any country in the world ($1,761 per head, in comparison to, say, Niger's $27 per head, on the most recent figures I have). Evidence of this is found in the satellite dishes hooked up next to the fretwork around the simple houses here, and the 4x4's in the driveways. But many people see this aid as blood money for the devastation caused by France's nuclear testing in the area. In the mid 60's, just as the USA, the USSR and Great Britain agreed to stop over-ground tests of nuclear weapons, France started its own programme in the Polynesian islands; this ran for the next three decades. You may recall Greenpeace sending out the Rainbow Warrier to protest against the tests. French secret service agents blew up the ship, killing one of the crew, and the New Zealand government caught a couple of the French agents and sent them to trial. They were convicted of manslaughter and imprisoned in New Zealand. Under intense pressure from the French government New Zealand agreed to allow the French to imprison them on their own territory; shortly after the prisoners were handed over the French reneged on their agreement and released them.
The French ended their 30 years of trials in 1996 with a year of underground tests that Chirac asserted would not harm the delicate local environment. By the end of the decade even French scientists (though not Chirac's government) reported that this was not true: corals had cracked and nuclear contamination had spread uncontrollably. The only local I've spoken to about this was seething in her condemnation of France for both its long term impact on the food chain (the fish that are the backbone of the local diet here will be feeding from radioactive coral for the foreseeable future - leukaemia rates are, she says, way up) and the government's risible denials of culpability. One of the cheery guys from the Club Med set who passed through here moved on (with his wife, of course) to stay for a while with his brother, who is working on one of the other islands. As an oncologist.
It's not quite all French here. Earlier this week a huge cruise ship made its way through the channel and deposited 600 American passengers on the quay where we have lunch. They ambled around like walking turtles in white socks, with no idea of how to pass their land time. The cluster of buildings that passes for the village here is at the other end of the road, 10 km away and few to none of them even tried to walk it there. Predictably, the trade came to the dollars, and makeshift stalls were set up within 20 metres of the key selling black pearls, sarongs, pictures and other souvenirs. The Americans were instructed not to visit the Kia Ora, which is the only nearby establishment that could service more than a handful of them, presumably for fear of crowding out the hotel's small beach. Most of the passengers seemed to wander back onto the ship as soon as they'd seen the stalls. The captain took his lunch at our place and they were all gone shortly after he'd finished his carafe of red. We watched the ship make its implausible journey back up the channel. One of the Americans described it to Paula as a "small" cruise ship: apparently they are often two or three times as large - but powering out of the lagoon it looked big enough to me.
While I wasn't diving I read more and finished two very contrasting books. The first was The Old Patagonian Express by Paul Theroux. This is a travel book in which the author takes a journey on poor trains (though flying where necessary) from his home in Boston to Patagonia, and grumbles superciliously and in borderline racist fashion about almost everyone he meets. Theroux has the literary ability to convey simultaneously that he has many, many faults and that he is unaware of them all. At the end of the book all that I really learned was that the journey is unpleasant and (unless you can scam a book deal out of it) pointless. But I have to admit that I did enjoy it.
The second book was Running North by Ann Mariah Cook, which documents her and her husband's assault on the Yukon Quest long-distance mushing race. It's a fast and interesting read that I can recommend to anyone, and for us (Paula read it first and Zoe's reading it now) it also sheds a nice afterlight on our month in Fairbanks, where it is centred. Even more than Theroux, the author does a particularly mean job on many of the people she runs into, but the positive qualities that people can have - qualities that seem not to exist in the world of Theroux - are also there. Reading the two books together is a jarring illustration of the different world's that we live in, not so much culturally as emotionally.
On this subject, I'd like to mention a little potential project of mine. While I'm having this year away I have more time to reflect on wider, abstract matters than I get normally, and I'm in a much more receptive frame of mind for it. Also, I will at some point, and perhaps before very long, have to give thought to some concrete choices I'll need to make upon my return. So my question is: what are the beliefs about how the world is and how we should live in it that underpin the choices we make these days? Insofar as we do make choices, there are evidently beliefs or assumptions upon which they are based: so there isn't a question of whether we have beliefs so much as whether we know what they really are. What I have a mind is to try to write down a series of these and see what they look like. I'd like other people to join in, too. The form would be just this outline-numbered set of statements, added to and annotated by anyone who is interested. I don't think that this blog is the right medium for it because (1) only I can write to it and (2) I can't imagine that more than a few of the readers of our travel diary will also want to join in with this new thing. If you have any ideas or suggestions, please let me know. I'm thinking that this might be something I could give a little time to while we're in Luang Prabang in a couple of months.
All of this introspection took a back seat a couple of days ago when I judged that it was time to return to diving. Having been out for four lagoon dives Marina decided that I was ready for a deeper dive in the open sea. So on Thursday morning at 7 something we went in a small party in a zodiac up through the channel and out to the ocean where we parked and tumbled into the sea. It was phenomenal. For the first part of the dive we swam over the coral apron that extends out from the atoll. The scale of it is astounding. We saw as many types of fish as you can imagine, and a few sharks, and a couple of turtles. The books tell you not to touch the turtles but the people here, including the divemasters, do it anyway.
Apart from the scale of it all, the other feature of the underwater seascape that's very different from the lagoon is the colour: of course, you're literally in another medium and the colour is pure blue edging to violet. In the lagoon we'd been diving at less than 15 metres - in the sea we went twice as deep, to 100 feet. (I later read in the PADI book that until you've been diving a while you should stick to 60 feet.) Soon Marina got very excited and pointed to some vague shapes ahead that turned out to be bottle-nose dolphins. We kicked towards them and one of them came up to us and stood vertically in the water right in front of us, checking us out. Then three of his friends swung by too. The quality of vision underwater is amazing. Everything is magnified as light refracts into your mask and in this clear sea it was like seeing objects in Photoshop backgrounded in blue to give you an outline crisp enough to excise. The dolphins were surprisingly marked in a way that suggests violent abrasions.
After seeing the dolphins we swam back towards the channel and, after first steadying ourselves by hanging onto the dead coral, headed into the strong current to shoot through. (Writing of precisely this stretch, the Tiputa Pass, Lonely Planet opines that it's "strictly for the experienced"). There were few fish deep in these turbulent waters but we were passed by a huge manta ray swimming upstream - it seemed to be about 3 metres across, though I don't yet trust myself to judge size accurately underwater. The mantas have a very white underside and a glossy black top that has a sheeny white/grey pattern in it. Distinctively, it has two bizarre relatively small fins to the front of its face, even in front of its side-mounted eyes. You should see one.
At the other end of the shark-favoured channel we ascended to the surface before there was any sign of the boat; Marina asked me if I'd seen the film Open Water.
That was the morning. In the afternoon we did a similar dive, also lasting about 45 minutes, though only to 20 metres and without shooting the channel at the end. The next day, yesterday, we did two similar dives - a deeper one taking in the channel in the morning, and a 25 metre dive in the afternoon. On each of the dives after the first one we "only" saw the dolphins silhouetted against the surface but there were compensations: we got a better viewing of a manta ray - a baby swam right over us - and on the last dive some huge silver tuna swam close by. And that was how I got my PADI Open Water Diver qualification.
The evening before she confirmed that I was qualified Marina lent me the PADI book that you're supposed to study and pass tests on. The following morning she asked me if I'd had a chance to read it and I truthfully replied that I hadn't. She just shrugged. She also told me that in order to procure me a permanent PADI card from the PADI people she would need a medical letter confirming that I'm fit to dive. Well after my second dive yesterday I felt far from fit, and I'm not fit yet. I've had any manner of aches and indigestive pains under my ribs from the moment that I last surfaced. Reading the diving tables in the PADI guide (whose existence was never mentioned during my training) is no comfort; they indicate that I've dived at some multiple of the safe depth x time, though Bert had warned me that they're so conservative as to be useless in practice. So this morning I was in the paradoxical position of having to ask the doctor to give me both medication for my various diving-related pains and a certificate that I'm fit to dive. He did! In such ways my French vocab is being extended.
I feel bad about the certification because I know that others have had to do it properly. It's like all the food traders in the UK who have to cripple themselves financially to meet EU directives that other nations ignore. Cultural differences like this make a mockery of standards. As another illustration, Paula took a medical required in Australia even to dive in the shark tank at Melbourne aquarium, and, being asthmatic, she failed and so she can't do it. But she could get her PADI here.
To be clear, it's not that I'm sure that the French are wrong. When I asked Marina whether she wouldn't get too much nitrogen in her blood from her four dives yesterday she just smiled and lit up another cigarette. Maybe just being somewhere beautiful and worrying less is a more positive approach to life than reading through hundreds of didactic pages (in the PADI guide you have to get to page 60 before you can even take your gear in the pool, and to page 175 before they let you have your first tentative sea dive) and kitting up for miserable northern European conditions. I don't know...
When I needed to get to the doctor this morning it was Liddy who helped. She really is the class act around here. She glides around the place making sure that everyone is happy while never seeming intrusively solicitous, and you never doubt that she will always say the right thing in the right way at the right time. She even has the ability to make me feel that I can speak French well, although rationally I know it's her, like a magician feeding the right cards from the pile, not me drawing them.
Last night I slept only fitfully and when I did I had a number of dreams that seemed to require more of a back story to them than I'd had time to spin. A week or so ago I had a dream about returning to work. I'd taken a job that was just about large enough to require to me to have a personal assistant again and I was interviewing for the post. A couple of years ago - in real life - there was a guy who, through accident, fell into a top position at the firm where he just didn't fit in. He had the demeanour of an unpleasantly precocious nine year old boy, like a character from Just William, and you could see every day how he rankled with his hard-nosed demotic peers. Of course, he left. Well, in my dream he, appearing now as a pushy 19~20 year old, was applying for a job as my PA and he seemed pretty sure he was going to get it. I was less sure. It's not that he was too clever or too qualified - I've seen Harvard and Yale grad's boost their careers doing this sort of role for two or three years - but he didn't have the right attitude. Knowing where people like him fall down, I stated the main features of the job spec very clearly - slipping "Taking my calls" into a prominent place - and asked him to repeat them. He rattled through the most of the points perfectly but where I'd said, "Taking my calls" he switched in, "Record your ansaphone message".
Don't ask me if it means anything.
The dolphins continue to crest around in the channel by our pension, and from time to time they flip right out and do air twirls for us; but they haven't (yet) returned to the level of activity of our first couple of days. At night we also see sharks swimming past, right by the deck. They're little black tips, no more than three or four feet in length; very smart and cool. One night we saw five of them at the same time. Last night Heidi and I saw an eel that drifted in and out with the waves in a wriggling frenzy before holing out for the evening in a little cave within the igneous rock in front of our terrace. The most exotic sighting, though, was of a pair of eagle rays that spent a while languidly swishing up and down the edge of the deeper water. They're bigger than the sting rays that we see every day in the shallows of the lagoon and they have beautiful white markings against the black of their backs. I don't have any very good photo's of them but this snap gives you an idea:
Occasionally I've been concerned that some of the visitors here aren't staying long enough to get a good dolphin sighting, but the dolphins always seem to do some sort of show just before people take off. Since I last wrote all of the visitors have been French couples, and I'm afraid they've started to blur into one another. They all come for a few nights either from or on the way to a stop of similar length on one of the other islands. Often the other destination will be Bora Bora, which everyone complains about ("it's too commercialised") but which equally many (and often the same people) visit. These French couples mooch around the pension between dives and take one of the two most common excursions ("Ah, le pique-nique! c'est superbe!"), where they marvel at the way that the boat guy will pick up a poor little shark by the fin and sling it around for the amusement of the small band of passengers.
The only books that we've seen the French couples reading have been by Anglo-American authors: Agatha Christie, Robert Ludlum. They're sweet: they stare at sunsets holding hands with each other until they get bored, which, like people drifting past a painting in a gallery, usually lasts about as long as it takes to peel a banana. They're also perfectly friendly and polite, although not once this week have I heard any of them express an interesting travel fact or a surprising opinion. Paula referred to them as the Club Med set, which is about right (Club Med sounds fine, but it's not what we want right now). For the past few nights we've sat at a table on our own, though in a couple of days' time I'm sure that we'll be drawn back to the company of others.
Some of the French couples are staying with compatriots working on the islands, which have the air of a French colony. Like most colonies and dependencies, the role of the French here is double-edged. On the one hand, they provide an astonishing level of financial support: French Polynesia receives the highest per capita level of overseas aid of any country in the world ($1,761 per head, in comparison to, say, Niger's $27 per head, on the most recent figures I have). Evidence of this is found in the satellite dishes hooked up next to the fretwork around the simple houses here, and the 4x4's in the driveways. But many people see this aid as blood money for the devastation caused by France's nuclear testing in the area. In the mid 60's, just as the USA, the USSR and Great Britain agreed to stop over-ground tests of nuclear weapons, France started its own programme in the Polynesian islands; this ran for the next three decades. You may recall Greenpeace sending out the Rainbow Warrier to protest against the tests. French secret service agents blew up the ship, killing one of the crew, and the New Zealand government caught a couple of the French agents and sent them to trial. They were convicted of manslaughter and imprisoned in New Zealand. Under intense pressure from the French government New Zealand agreed to allow the French to imprison them on their own territory; shortly after the prisoners were handed over the French reneged on their agreement and released them.
The French ended their 30 years of trials in 1996 with a year of underground tests that Chirac asserted would not harm the delicate local environment. By the end of the decade even French scientists (though not Chirac's government) reported that this was not true: corals had cracked and nuclear contamination had spread uncontrollably. The only local I've spoken to about this was seething in her condemnation of France for both its long term impact on the food chain (the fish that are the backbone of the local diet here will be feeding from radioactive coral for the foreseeable future - leukaemia rates are, she says, way up) and the government's risible denials of culpability. One of the cheery guys from the Club Med set who passed through here moved on (with his wife, of course) to stay for a while with his brother, who is working on one of the other islands. As an oncologist.
It's not quite all French here. Earlier this week a huge cruise ship made its way through the channel and deposited 600 American passengers on the quay where we have lunch. They ambled around like walking turtles in white socks, with no idea of how to pass their land time. The cluster of buildings that passes for the village here is at the other end of the road, 10 km away and few to none of them even tried to walk it there. Predictably, the trade came to the dollars, and makeshift stalls were set up within 20 metres of the key selling black pearls, sarongs, pictures and other souvenirs. The Americans were instructed not to visit the Kia Ora, which is the only nearby establishment that could service more than a handful of them, presumably for fear of crowding out the hotel's small beach. Most of the passengers seemed to wander back onto the ship as soon as they'd seen the stalls. The captain took his lunch at our place and they were all gone shortly after he'd finished his carafe of red. We watched the ship make its implausible journey back up the channel. One of the Americans described it to Paula as a "small" cruise ship: apparently they are often two or three times as large - but powering out of the lagoon it looked big enough to me.
While I wasn't diving I read more and finished two very contrasting books. The first was The Old Patagonian Express by Paul Theroux. This is a travel book in which the author takes a journey on poor trains (though flying where necessary) from his home in Boston to Patagonia, and grumbles superciliously and in borderline racist fashion about almost everyone he meets. Theroux has the literary ability to convey simultaneously that he has many, many faults and that he is unaware of them all. At the end of the book all that I really learned was that the journey is unpleasant and (unless you can scam a book deal out of it) pointless. But I have to admit that I did enjoy it.
The second book was Running North by Ann Mariah Cook, which documents her and her husband's assault on the Yukon Quest long-distance mushing race. It's a fast and interesting read that I can recommend to anyone, and for us (Paula read it first and Zoe's reading it now) it also sheds a nice afterlight on our month in Fairbanks, where it is centred. Even more than Theroux, the author does a particularly mean job on many of the people she runs into, but the positive qualities that people can have - qualities that seem not to exist in the world of Theroux - are also there. Reading the two books together is a jarring illustration of the different world's that we live in, not so much culturally as emotionally.
On this subject, I'd like to mention a little potential project of mine. While I'm having this year away I have more time to reflect on wider, abstract matters than I get normally, and I'm in a much more receptive frame of mind for it. Also, I will at some point, and perhaps before very long, have to give thought to some concrete choices I'll need to make upon my return. So my question is: what are the beliefs about how the world is and how we should live in it that underpin the choices we make these days? Insofar as we do make choices, there are evidently beliefs or assumptions upon which they are based: so there isn't a question of whether we have beliefs so much as whether we know what they really are. What I have a mind is to try to write down a series of these and see what they look like. I'd like other people to join in, too. The form would be just this outline-numbered set of statements, added to and annotated by anyone who is interested. I don't think that this blog is the right medium for it because (1) only I can write to it and (2) I can't imagine that more than a few of the readers of our travel diary will also want to join in with this new thing. If you have any ideas or suggestions, please let me know. I'm thinking that this might be something I could give a little time to while we're in Luang Prabang in a couple of months.
All of this introspection took a back seat a couple of days ago when I judged that it was time to return to diving. Having been out for four lagoon dives Marina decided that I was ready for a deeper dive in the open sea. So on Thursday morning at 7 something we went in a small party in a zodiac up through the channel and out to the ocean where we parked and tumbled into the sea. It was phenomenal. For the first part of the dive we swam over the coral apron that extends out from the atoll. The scale of it is astounding. We saw as many types of fish as you can imagine, and a few sharks, and a couple of turtles. The books tell you not to touch the turtles but the people here, including the divemasters, do it anyway.
Apart from the scale of it all, the other feature of the underwater seascape that's very different from the lagoon is the colour: of course, you're literally in another medium and the colour is pure blue edging to violet. In the lagoon we'd been diving at less than 15 metres - in the sea we went twice as deep, to 100 feet. (I later read in the PADI book that until you've been diving a while you should stick to 60 feet.) Soon Marina got very excited and pointed to some vague shapes ahead that turned out to be bottle-nose dolphins. We kicked towards them and one of them came up to us and stood vertically in the water right in front of us, checking us out. Then three of his friends swung by too. The quality of vision underwater is amazing. Everything is magnified as light refracts into your mask and in this clear sea it was like seeing objects in Photoshop backgrounded in blue to give you an outline crisp enough to excise. The dolphins were surprisingly marked in a way that suggests violent abrasions.
After seeing the dolphins we swam back towards the channel and, after first steadying ourselves by hanging onto the dead coral, headed into the strong current to shoot through. (Writing of precisely this stretch, the Tiputa Pass, Lonely Planet opines that it's "strictly for the experienced"). There were few fish deep in these turbulent waters but we were passed by a huge manta ray swimming upstream - it seemed to be about 3 metres across, though I don't yet trust myself to judge size accurately underwater. The mantas have a very white underside and a glossy black top that has a sheeny white/grey pattern in it. Distinctively, it has two bizarre relatively small fins to the front of its face, even in front of its side-mounted eyes. You should see one.
At the other end of the shark-favoured channel we ascended to the surface before there was any sign of the boat; Marina asked me if I'd seen the film Open Water.
That was the morning. In the afternoon we did a similar dive, also lasting about 45 minutes, though only to 20 metres and without shooting the channel at the end. The next day, yesterday, we did two similar dives - a deeper one taking in the channel in the morning, and a 25 metre dive in the afternoon. On each of the dives after the first one we "only" saw the dolphins silhouetted against the surface but there were compensations: we got a better viewing of a manta ray - a baby swam right over us - and on the last dive some huge silver tuna swam close by. And that was how I got my PADI Open Water Diver qualification.
The evening before she confirmed that I was qualified Marina lent me the PADI book that you're supposed to study and pass tests on. The following morning she asked me if I'd had a chance to read it and I truthfully replied that I hadn't. She just shrugged. She also told me that in order to procure me a permanent PADI card from the PADI people she would need a medical letter confirming that I'm fit to dive. Well after my second dive yesterday I felt far from fit, and I'm not fit yet. I've had any manner of aches and indigestive pains under my ribs from the moment that I last surfaced. Reading the diving tables in the PADI guide (whose existence was never mentioned during my training) is no comfort; they indicate that I've dived at some multiple of the safe depth x time, though Bert had warned me that they're so conservative as to be useless in practice. So this morning I was in the paradoxical position of having to ask the doctor to give me both medication for my various diving-related pains and a certificate that I'm fit to dive. He did! In such ways my French vocab is being extended.
I feel bad about the certification because I know that others have had to do it properly. It's like all the food traders in the UK who have to cripple themselves financially to meet EU directives that other nations ignore. Cultural differences like this make a mockery of standards. As another illustration, Paula took a medical required in Australia even to dive in the shark tank at Melbourne aquarium, and, being asthmatic, she failed and so she can't do it. But she could get her PADI here.
To be clear, it's not that I'm sure that the French are wrong. When I asked Marina whether she wouldn't get too much nitrogen in her blood from her four dives yesterday she just smiled and lit up another cigarette. Maybe just being somewhere beautiful and worrying less is a more positive approach to life than reading through hundreds of didactic pages (in the PADI guide you have to get to page 60 before you can even take your gear in the pool, and to page 175 before they let you have your first tentative sea dive) and kitting up for miserable northern European conditions. I don't know...
When I needed to get to the doctor this morning it was Liddy who helped. She really is the class act around here. She glides around the place making sure that everyone is happy while never seeming intrusively solicitous, and you never doubt that she will always say the right thing in the right way at the right time. She even has the ability to make me feel that I can speak French well, although rationally I know it's her, like a magician feeding the right cards from the pile, not me drawing them.
Last night I slept only fitfully and when I did I had a number of dreams that seemed to require more of a back story to them than I'd had time to spin. A week or so ago I had a dream about returning to work. I'd taken a job that was just about large enough to require to me to have a personal assistant again and I was interviewing for the post. A couple of years ago - in real life - there was a guy who, through accident, fell into a top position at the firm where he just didn't fit in. He had the demeanour of an unpleasantly precocious nine year old boy, like a character from Just William, and you could see every day how he rankled with his hard-nosed demotic peers. Of course, he left. Well, in my dream he, appearing now as a pushy 19~20 year old, was applying for a job as my PA and he seemed pretty sure he was going to get it. I was less sure. It's not that he was too clever or too qualified - I've seen Harvard and Yale grad's boost their careers doing this sort of role for two or three years - but he didn't have the right attitude. Knowing where people like him fall down, I stated the main features of the job spec very clearly - slipping "Taking my calls" into a prominent place - and asked him to repeat them. He rattled through the most of the points perfectly but where I'd said, "Taking my calls" he switched in, "Record your ansaphone message".
Don't ask me if it means anything.
Posted: Sat - November 12, 2005 at 11:08 AM
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Published On: Nov 19, 2005 01:58 PM
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Published On: Nov 19, 2005 01:58 PM