A Cacophony of Frogs

Actually, the collective noun for a number of frogs is a knot or a colony, but neither has the relevant connotations, since I was seeking a noun to describe an extremely loud group of middle-aged French women whose every conversational sentence began with the supremely egotistical phrase ”Moi, je…..”  

For the last ten days they have insisted on talking to each other, all the time, which is, of course, something Anglo-Saxons would not dream of engaging in without at least some kind of introduction. 

I had thought that by the time mid-morning came around they wouldn’t have much left to say for the day, but their conversation rises in speed and volume towards the evening, as they forge on, mostly all speaking at same time, in what must be a specialised French way of minimising the pauses between one person’s statement and the other’s response.

Most of them left this morning, though I see from the wall-chart in the office that replacements are en-route. 

It's always entertaining to watch the newbies get used to the place.

So far, I haven’t had to mix much with other guests since I have been on a special diet, which immediately attracts stares and puzzlement from my inquisitive fellow-guests.

If I had sat at the long table as I would normally, I would have been explaining my special diet in French, German and Italian on a daily basis, and quite honestly, it was easier to pick up my plate from the kitchen and scurry back up to my veranda rather than be forcibly multi-lingual.

It’s quieter here now, and we are more multicultural with no dominant tribe for a while. Here at Mattindia, this is what tends to happen: when one nationality has more than half a dozen representatives, the whole establishment undergoes a cultural shift. 

At the beginning of December, it was the Spanish who picked at their chick-peas and chapattis and then escaped to Mehrin Bakery and Tea-Rooms on the corner for something exquisitely sticky, washed down with the Raj’s equivalent of a Caffe Latte – which is not a million taste-buds away from a bottle of Camp chicory drink, made up with evaporated milk and several sugars.

The Italians always develop serious caffeine-withdrawal with the absence of an espresso machine and try, desperately, firstly to understand an electric kettle, and then try to coax a vague Arabica flavour out of the freeze-dried powder in the jar labelled “Coffee,” but to no avail.

Northern European guests tend to be sophisticated and take it all in their stride. 

They didn’t expect immaculate décor or fawning service, which is just as well, because you either take Mattindia as it is – grubby and glorious - or you are very unhappy and don’t really understand India, wanderlust or the importance of always carrying a pack of tissues.

I have tissues bound to my legs at the moment, to staunch the rivers of blood that really messed up the bathroom floor, transforming it into a scene-set for Hitchcock. 

It’s the leeches, you see. But I’ll save the horror of my treatments till next time.