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We set out in the small motorboat after dark to take a look at the animals in and around the river. It’s very cool and still, and in the moonlight, eerie blue reflections of the trees are cast on the water. Our torch catches the twin red glows of caiman eyes, looking our way before quietly slipping under the surface. A family of capybara clusters near the bank, ears twitching and their long, square heads breaking the water like a collection of floating, furry shoe boxes. A herd of white brahmin cattle on the bank peers curiously at the boat, gleaming like pale ghosts. Everything is different in the dark.

Then the guide says he’s heard a jaguar, cuts the engine and turns out the torch. What a weight of silence! No cars, no aeroplanes, no human voices. Just the tiny night sounds of animals moving, breathing and hiding, and our own blood buzzing in our ears. History peels away: we are just Homo sapiens listening in the dark, not breathing, listening for the cat.

All it took was a couple of two-hour rides through the Pantanal to convince myself that I should become a cowgirl. Yes, I wanted to give up a life of science and spend my days riding the range, wearing chaps and wrasslin’ cattle—-or whatever else it is that cowboys do. I’m a little hazy on the details.

Like most pre-adolescent girls, I took horse-riding lessons when I was young, but I haven’t ridden much since then. I’ve also never ridden Western-style before, with a one-handed grip on the reins and long stirrups, but it was a lot of fun. My horse and I developed a reasonable working relationship, and broadly agreed on the direction and speed of travel, which is always a bonus. Watching wildlife from horseback is actually quite a good way to go about it. Many animals seem to see you as some kind of weird centaur-like half-human, half-horse creature, and so come a bit closer than they might if you were on foot. It’s great until one of the horses accidentally kicks a bees’ nest, as happened on one of the rides I went on.

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We had an unbelievably long journey to the Pantanal by road¹, most of which was at night. Thankfully, we had hired a very comfortable coach, with reclining seats, blankets, and all kinds of other little luxuries that made it a bit more comfortable. I sat right at the front of the bus (best seat in the house!), and watched the scenery for a while until it got dark, when I settled down to get some sleep.

In the very early hours of the morning, I woke up to see a completely empty road ahead of us, illuminated only by the twin cones of our headlights. It was absolutely straight and stretched away to a vanishing point where it dipped down, as if we were about to fall off the edge of the world. The land was flat and seemed to be almost devoid of any vegetation or habitation. The sky was flat and dark. Suddenly, lightning lit up the sky. Vivid forks etched the clouds before stabbing the earth and leaving dancing after-images in my eyes. Sheets of light rippled across the clouds, revealing the huge dome of the sky, the texture of the clouds, and the flat land below. It was like watching a stunning flicker book animation, or some scene under a strobe light. So captivating was it that I spent the next hour or so wide awake, marvelling at the light show.

¹ A journey time of 14 hours had been mentioned when we left, but in the end it took us closer to 19. ↑

In the run up to my trip to Brazil I was very excited, but also a little apprehensive. After all, Brazil has a slightly fearsome reputation for crime. That may be partially deserved in some restricted areas, but my own experience of the country and people was universally positive. Any country has cities with slightly dodgy areas, which you are wise to avoid, or travel through with caution. I can honestly say that I’ve felt less safe and more threatened in parts of Birmingham and London than anywhere I went in Brazil¹.

Brazilian people are lovely. Not just in a ‘Girl from Ipanema’ kind of way², but also in their warmth, friendliness, openness and generosity. I could give a slew of examples of the thoughtful and welcoming way in which we were treated—-despite our mostly lamentable lack of Portuguese—-but one instance in particular will probably illustrate it well.

After a day’s work, our rather large party (more than 20 people) set out for the nearest bar, to which we’d been the previous night. Unfortunately it was closed (possibly because we had provided a week’s takings in a single night), so we moved on to the next one on the block. This place was tiny, and only had a handful of chairs—-certainly not enough to seat all of us. We didn’t mind very much and were happy to stand, but noticed as we were ordering beers and sorting ourselves out that the few locals already in the bar were disappearing. I worried that we’d driven them out, but a few moments later they re-emerged from all directions, carrying chairs from their own houses for us to sit on.

Can you imagine that kind of thing happening in the UK?

¹ To give you some context to my comments (and for the rest of my posts about Brazil), I spent the first few days at our base in a small town about 3 hours from São Paulo with a large group of people from the University, then travelled with them to the Pantanal for a further few days. They then returned to their base and I stayed on in the Pantanal on my own for 10 days. Finally, I travelled back to meet up with the group for the last couple of days. ↑

² There are—-it has to be said (even though I feel shallow saying it)—-a huge number of physically stunning Brazilian people, both male and female. ↑

I’m back. I’m very tired but I had a fantastic, productive, awe-inspiring time in Brazil. Right now I’m ploughing through a huge pile of emails, but once I’ve sorted myself out a bit, slept, eaten some real veggie food for the first time in three weeks (most emphatically not rice and beans), and of course caught up with the hubbie, I’ll start writing about some of the great experiences I’ve had.

[First published 27/01/2005]

It seems appropriate—on the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz—to talk about a film I watched the other night. Holocaust - A Music Memorial Film from Auschwitz interspersed interviews with people who had been forced to play music while imprisoned in Auschwitz and photographs from the time, with performances of various pieces of classical music within the camp and buildings themselves. It might sound like an odd idea, perhaps even rather disrespectful, but that isn’t the way it came across. Mr. Bsag commented at one point that it was like a musical exorcism, and perhaps it was. Certainly, music was corrupted and perverted there; people were forced to play marches and jolly little pieces while their fellow humans were marched off to the gas chambers. Playing beautiful pieces of music—some of which were composed in response to the Holocaust seemed a good way to remember and pay respect to those who died or were scarred by their experiences there.

As you might expect, it was unbearably moving at times. I’m ashamed to admit that I couldn’t watch it all in one go. I had to look away, which is terrible. It isn’t much to ask of us that we should be witnesses, 60 years on, but I still couldn’t do it.

I don’t believe in ghosts (or life after death for that matter), but it was difficult when Cantor Steven Leas was singing a Hebrew lament for the dead (El Male Rachamim) in the women’s barracks not to imagine that he was singing directly to the spirits of the women who had once lived in that bleak and dank room. Similarly, when Iva Bittova played the violin and sang a Gypsy Lament in the ruins of one of the many huts where Roma people where housed and then massacred, it felt as if she was sending a message of condolence and hope back in time. The programme ended in a very symbolic way, with Maxim Vengerov playing Bach’s Chaconne on the violin while walking out of the camp. Liberation.

[First published 21/03/2004]

Yesterday’s Meet the Ancestors programme was an interesting exploration of some recent gruesome discoveries just outside the old Oxford Gaol. The old prison (next to the old castle mound) is being redeveloped (surprise, surprise) into a luxury hotel and apartments. Three of the old cells will form each of the fancy new en-suite hotel rooms. However, after watching the programme, I don’t think that I would want to stay there, even if I had the money.

They got archaeologists in to check that there was nothing of interest in the area of the castle moat, only to find a number of human skeletons–I bet the developers loved that. Further investigations found a large number of bodies in mass graves in the old moat. Some of the bodies were dismembered or otherwise disrespectfully treated, and others were of children of about 12-16 years old.

This was odd because the moat was unconsecrated ground, and even the executed criminals were given a decent burial in consecrated ground within the prison walls. One of the bodies in the moat had the top of his skull sawn off, his face removed, and then the remains of his head forced inside the chest cavity–not what you might call respectful treatment of a human body. This seemed to be the work of medical students (dissection could only legally be performed on executed murderers), but it still didn’t explain why they weren’t reburied in the prison graveyard.

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[First published: 05/02/2004]

Last night, we saw Touching the Void—Joe Simpson and Simon Yates’ attempt on the west face of Siula Grande in the Peruvian Andes. I’m sitting now, with my hands on the keyboard, wondering if it’s possible to compress down and reduce the story and the impression it had on me into words. I don’t think it is, but I’ll do my best.

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[First published 08/11/2002]

In the little coffee room on my floor at work, a fridge-freezer has just appeared. It’s a standard domestic model, only distinguished by the sign on the door.

“Experiment in progress. Do not open.”

I am aflame with curiosity. What’s the experiment? Why is it taking place in a fridge? What dreadful calamity would befall me if I took a peek? Is it all a Cunning Plan to stop people stealing this guy’s milk? I guess this is why scientists can get into so much trouble. One minute you’re thinking, “I wonder what would happen if I dropped a lit match on this large heap of grey powder?”, and the next moment all that’s left is a pair of smoking boots.

[First published 11/02/1003]

Dan Hon has written a very interesting article about the limitations of the filing cabinet metaphor of computer filesystems, and the about the finality of saving a document.

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[First published 30/09/2003]

I’ve briefly mentioned my summer working on the Isle of Mull before. What I haven’t really told you about is how I came to love the place. I went there just after graduation to work for a charity running whale-watching tours and doing research on the local whale population. I had no idea what to expect, as my last visit to Scotland had been when I was in a pushchair as a child¹, and I was woefully prepared in practical terms. I think that I was also unprepared for how profound the experience would be.

I arrived in a rainstorm, so I couldn’t see much of my surroundings beyond blurry outlines swept away by the windscreen wipers as we bumped along in the Land Rover. At that point, I wondered quite what I had let myself in for. This feeling was reinforced when I found out that because of a slight shortage of space in the caravans, I would be living on the boat on my own. This turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to me.

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[First published 09/01/2003]

This week’s bravery award goes to the camera people involved in the “Omnivores” episode of The Life of Mammals. First there were the grizzly bears. Big, hungry grizzly bears. I feared for the cameraman on that one, not to mention David Attenborough. I was on the edge of the sofa shouting, “Look behind you - there’s a big hungry bear!” David’s such a pro that he carried on with his effortless, unruffled delivery while, barely 50m behind him, half-starved bears galloped about after salmon. I wouldn’t fancy my chances of out-running one if it decided I was coveting its fish.

Then there was the bat cave. Paul Stewart (the cameraman) must have really picked the short straw for that particular assignment. I can imagine the scene: they draw lots. “Yay! Platypus in Australia!”. “Woohoo! African savanna!”. Then Paul picks his assignment. “Oh bugger.” The others are all laughing and chanting, “Paul’s got the bat cave, Paul’s got the bat cave…”

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[First published 16/11/2002]

I missed capturing a moment as a digital image today, because I didn’t have my camera with me. So, here it is translated by my brain from the image formed in my eyes.

Our bus approached a deep flood in the road, water arcing up on each side. Kids in grey hoodies ran alongside, exhilarated, trying to get soaked, dolphins surfing the bow wave. Sun shattered the water drops into sparks, igniting their smiles.

I realized afterwards, with sadness, that I’ve reached an age where I would have been angry, not excited if I were in their position. But, I did see the moment of beauty and appreciate it, so perhaps I’m not irredeemably lost.

Well, I’m flying in a few hours, so this will be the last live content for three weeks or so. Mr. Bsag is under strict instructions to look after himself, the house and the garden (in that order), and I’ve promised to phone him as often as I’m able.

I didn’t like to leave But She’s a Girl… with the lights off, so I’ve resorted to a common broadcaster’s summer practice; I’m posting repeats. But She’s a Girl… will have been running for three years next month, and looking through the archives, I realised that there were a few posts I wouldn’t be embarrassed to put up again. These will turn up intermittently while I’m away—-if the WordPress post scheduling works OK. If I do happen to get any internet access, I’ll post something live.

Have a great September everyone, and I’ll return with tales of adventure near the end of the month.