Of Boars, Bulls and Other such Species

I really wonder how many of you would have guessed the topic of this blog from the title. My guess would be no one, but if you are reading this, then I have piqued your curiosity. This blog is on good conversations or rather their absence, and the rationale for the above title will be evident as we go along.

A good conversation is like fine wine, one can reflect on its particular qualities well into the future. However just as there are pestilences that ruin a crop of grapes and make for a bad vintage, there are people whose very presence is inimical to a good chat. In every walk of life one comes across some individuals who push the nadirs previously tested, like athletes breaking new records.

For one there are the Boars (Bores). These are people whose knowledge and their desire to impart it, is far in excess of their ability to communicate. They trap their innocent audience in the banality of unnecessary details, from which extrication is difficult. Some of them can be almost hypnotic, holding their hapless audience in an unwitting thrall. We must all, at some time or another, have experienced being caught in the midst of an enthusiastic but boring presentation, and the associated feeling of time crawling as your thoughts addle over and freeze. As the other person steps up a verbal gear and their animation and passion increases, your eyelids start to droop and your brain is simulating the desperation of a drowning man trying to stay afloat. Sounds like a lecture from a nerdy professor does it not? But this can also be the effect of a sophomoric conversation, where one person extols rhapsodic, to the utter disregard of the other’s interest levels. Generally, such people are most enthusiastic about their own interests and achievements, and can get unpleasantly surprised if people show any curiosity beyond those vast borders. At such times they will become quiet and not participate. Their redeeming feature is that they seldom realize their own impact, and if asked would count themselves as some of the most interesting people they know. I guess a real bore ranks in equal popularity with people suffering from bad breath and foul body-odor. And as with those maladies, one only hopes that the symptoms will be self-rectified or pointed out by someone else rather than broached by us.

On the other extreme are the Butterflies. These are exponents of the verbal arts whose conversations flit from topic to topic, like a butterfly over a field of flowers. The conversation never touches down for enough time to develop momentum and in his case, an opinion on last night’s gastronomic outing or a bystander’s fashion faux pas, mixed up with bawdy personal comments, is the height of banter. The talk becomes a carousel of sentences that can literally make you dizzy with the pace of change. It’s almost as if the person is trying to distract you from their vapidity like a cheap magician, by switching topics rapidly. And as the topics whir by with increasing intensity, the general level of conversation sinks below the equator. Their presence in a gathering is evidenced by meaningless chitchat, senseless laughter, and a complete absence of a rational and structured conversation. There is no possibility of a good conversation getting any traction with butterflies around, as they are mutually exclusive. Sometimes, after a long and hard day, butterflies can serve as stress relievers. Nothing as strenuous as a thought needs to strike you when one is around, and even if you are in a mental coma no one around will be the wiser. The conversational vehicle is on cruise control, with the wheel firmly in their hands.

Then there are the Shrinking Violets, the ones who are so sensitive that almost anything can potentially force them to withdraw into a protective cocoon. They are normally emotionally challenged, and are always one breath away from an implosion. Most people have one or two topics that they are a bit thin-skinned about, but this variety can be traumatized on almost any issue. Their presence turns the conversational landscape into a virtual minefield, and every word has to be carefully measured and weighed before utterance. This inhibits free speech and stems the flow of ideas. People around them tend to skirt around issues so as not to hurt them, but quite often the more they are shielded the more photo sensitive they get. Their reaction when offended (which can be quite often) varies from a hyper-emotional tirade, to stony silence accompanied by a constipated expression, leaving no doubt in the speakers mind as to what they think.

However the worst of the lot are the Bulls or conversation busters! They are like demolition balls waiting for a conversation to develop some structure, before they swing in to wreck it. They are the worst because they actually allow you to hope that a decent conversation has a chance of budding, before they pull the soil from under its roots. Just as the topic is gathering steam, the group is pulling itself together to discuss an issue of substance, or a few people have put their stake on opposite sides of the ideological fence, these people swing in like battering rams. They are the guardians of the mundane and the ignorant, and they will defend their turf fiercely to ensure that no structure above a hovel can ever be erected on that ground. Any conversation that aspires to reach above sea level will be flattened, by diverting everyone’s attention to some other matter of insignificance. Having completely eviscerated that particular conversation, they can then unflinchingly inflict the unkindest cut of all, by feigning interest and asking the person they interrupted mid-sentence, to continue from where they left off.

Some of these traits can coexist, creating a potent Molotov cocktail. Imagine a bullish butterfly! I have not mentioned another type who can also have an adverse impact, the Clownfish. They are the ones who can rapidly puncture the mood of a conversation with their flippant one-liners, but in general are not as lethal as the others mentioned before.

So then what makes for a good conversation? Is it the person, or is it the sound of their voice? Is it the delivery or is it the topic? Some of the most intelligent people can bore you to death as soon as they open their mouth, and conversely, buffoons can keep you entertained for hours. This is an important question as I consider an ability to hold a good conversation and to keep people engrossed as probably one of the greatest gifts. Also, for a person who experiences bouts of ADD at such times, I find myself rapidly phasing out of the inanities. All of us have inbuilt safety mechanisms, which ensure that we filter out puerile data extremely quickly, before it inundates us. I am by nature a serious person who prefers a deeper conversation, which prods and explores the topic at hand from all sides before a switch to another. If the topic is not adequately examined I feel a lack of fulfillment, almost a sense of denial, and I very quickly drift away mentally. I love a good argument and I definitely love to listen to someone who knows what he / she are talking about. It is always fascinating to listen to someone who has an in-depth understanding of an issue, or is passionate about her ideals. Agreement with the views expressed is not always essential; it is just an additional perquisite.

Einstein gave us the concept of relative time, and to me it is most evident during a conversation. A nice chat can make the hours fly, and vice versa some conversations can make it flow like treacle. I cannot say that I have been surprised though as to the differences in what makes for a good chat amongst people. Food, gossip, children seem to be the all time favorites with women, and I am sure that women would say that men can't talk of anything beyond sports, movies and sex. A lot of people prefer to avoid topics that polarize opinions; often times they find it too strenuous, sometimes do not have the depth of knowledge or understanding to express or defend their views, or are intrinsically uncomfortable with confrontations and disagreements. I am of the view (as expressed in the movie Matrix Reloaded) that you never really know someone until you have fought them (I refer to verbal jousting of course). A good debate clears the air, increases your store of knowledge and most importantly makes you get to know the other person infinitely better. A lively discussion will be remembered for years to come, unlike the generally insipid banter that is forgotten even before the lights are turned off for the day. I still remember in vivid details the debates that we used to have as kids in school, and carried on into college and early adulthood. Some of my best times were spent crossing idealogical swords with my sister in early days, and then my sister-in-law later on.

Another major factor that impacts a conversation is the size of the group. In general, the bigger the group the swifter is the descent to the lowest common denominator. Anything above six to eight individuals leads to pockets of conversations, with attention flowing in and out of different pools. It is difficult to have one conversation, unless it is a topic that is of current interest or an issue that each feels strongly about. There are many obstacles for the tide of debate to swell in that situation, which can then be compounded by the presence of the butterflies or the bulls. Of course it is impossible to have a deep and meaningful conversation all of the time, nor is it probably desirable. However my heart starts pounding every time I see one peeking out of the bushes, and my shoulders slump (metaphorically) when it is quickly jerked out of sight.

I would like to end with a quote I recently read – “People like to acquire information, but they prefer to impart it”. Going through some of my earlier posts this statement summarizes my pomposity quite well, I must admit.

Happy Camper

All (well most) of my friends love to go camping, - I don't as much! It is as simple as that. However that one little distinction morphs into a macho thing, with anyone not immediately ready to live in the wild seen as a wimp. I guess this is our pre-historic instinct coming to the fore; to be one with nature, cooking over a fire, gazing at the night sky and waking with the dawn. It definitely looks fantastic in movies and does quite make for good reading as well. However the reality is as far removed as Pluto is from Earth. In actuality camping to me symbolizes our descent into man's Bronze Age. Why anyone would actually enjoy sleeping in a flimsy tent, eat char burnt food, and use open air facilities with no plumbing, is beyond my threshold of understanding. In my opinion it is disrespectful to our ancestors to indulge in such activities. They worked hard, over centuries to ensure that we do not have to endure a lack of electricity and plumbing, and here we go turning our backs on it all. Even if it is for a day it is the principle that matters. My great-grandparents would definitely frown and cluck their tongues at this stupidity. The narrative that follows is a uniquely individual perspective of our camping trips of the past, which might or might not be echoed by others.

Our camping trips normally start to get organized a week in advance. A detailed list of items to take to the campsite is circulated, which leads to numerous trips to the hardware store as well as the supermarket. About ninety percent of the luggage being carried (by weight) if you exclude cars and ourselves, would be of the ingestible variety. By my approximation, we normally attempt to tuck away our own body weight during the 15 hours that we shall be in the wild outdoors. Knowing my ignorance about these matters, my friends generally take pity on me and provide me with a list of day to day groceries to pick up, as the other specialized camping gear is way out of my area of expertise. It involves such arcane stuff as next generation lighting fluids that could operate in a vacuum, xenon and night vision lamps that could be worn on your forehead (keeps your hands free in case you get attacked by wild creatures), special drinking water dispensers with desalination plants and filters, state of the art tent pitching equipment and all sorts of other widgets that are critical to our survival.

The time to venture out on the given day is critical, and requires precise calculations of trip distance and time to set up camp. We normally leave the comfort of our homes towards late afternoon, a time set to ensure that we, both beat the heat and set up tent before it becomes too dark to see what we are doing. A couple of enterprising buddies would have already scouted out the camp-site a few days in advance, to make sure that we do not get lost or mistakenly pitch up tents on a major caravan (4WD) route. These sites over the years have been pushed further and further away - firstly due to the expansion of the city limits and secondly to discourage my habit of waking up before dawn, to drive home for my quotidian ablutions before driving back for breakfast. My personal preferences have been for sites close to a small restaurant where tea and coffee are available 24 hours, and decent washroom facilities are at hand, but I was generally overridden in the past and now not even consulted. We stop along the way to pick up bags of ice to put in the box cooler to cool our drinks. There is a mounting sense of excitement in the children as we reach the chosen campsite, which is almost 25 meters away from the road. I did not know this, but there is an art to choosing a campsite, which involves juggling complex conditions like distance from the road to lug our food and water, judging windward and leeward sides of the dunes surrounding us, as well as ground gradient to ensure that the tents do not get blown away, and of course availability of flat ground within the camp site for the centerpiece attraction, the campfire.

A couple of camping trips ago this selection of a proper campsite almost resulted in the entire trip being put in jeopardy. Once at the site itself, the two alpha males could not agree as to which side to pitch the tents on, with both insisting on the diametric opposite side as the ideal location. There was a point where I thought that the entire trip would be cancelled due to non-agreement, but unfortunately a happy compromise was reached. Both decided to pitch their own tents where they thought it most appropriate and the other tents would be strung out in a line between them. Now that the site has been marked, starts the backbreaking work of setting up the tents. It normally takes about two hours for all tents to be set up, sleeping bags to be rolled out, pillows fluffed and torches and lamps set up. As we had only one 4WD in the group, that one is used as a workhorse to bring the water, drinks, barbeque pit and coal, as well as the food to the site. It takes several trips from the road, as the rations are distributed in various vehicles, and the groaning off roader might get stuck if it is overloaded. The tents are pitched up and ready for occupancy just as the light is fading, and a quiet descends around us.

This is a moment to savor, away from the city-lights and sounds. As your eyes start to adjust to the twilight, your ears pick up the distant sound of surf on the shore. It is a peaceful moment, one to be shared with your children. But as your eyes start to pick out a few stars winking in the sky, and your body is unwinding from all its city induced stress, you realize that it was the calm before the storm. The sound of ABBA breaks the silence and bright headlights turn twilight into day. The 4WD has been brought onto the periphery of the site, to entertain as well as give light while the campfire is being set up. The ladies get busy with setting out the food and the guys start doing what they were born to do – light up fires. Shaken out of my reverie I get up to help with something, but do not really know what I can help with. As the campfire starts going, people get thirsty and hungry, and the soft drinks and the assortment of crisps and chips are taken out. The barbeque pit is laid out over the fire, and as the meat starts to roast and spit, the strong aroma of cooked meat starts to overpower the clean air and smell of the desert. Being the fifth wheel in this group, I normally contribute by eating as much as I can. This is my way of appreciating my friends’ efforts. It is awe inspiring to witness complex human behavior wherein within a group of so many adults and children each picks out his role and task, seemingly without being told or asked – my task is to not interfere and to eat!

Knowing our visceral fear of the dark, on the last camping trip a friend who works in a factory managed to procure wooden pallets which he got cut as fire wood. With the quantity of wood that he got, we knew we were set for a month of continual fire, and so we went overboard on the size of the pit. As the flames grew we fed them more and more till the fire was as tall as a standing human and we could have barbequed a full grown water buffalo over it. As the fire grew, so did our fascination with gazing into it, and such was the intensity of the flames that the bright Dubai streets would look dim in comparison. It took a few days for my night vision to return from staring into that inferno. We had calculated precisely the size of the blaze so as to be able to feed the flames all night long, and hence not carry any wood back. There was a veritable feast laid out for dinner as the ladies had all excelled each other in their offerings. Apparently, they were afraid that we could die of starvation overnight, and each had carried food to feed an army. I ate till I felt I would burst, and then tired from the back-breaking physical exertion (of standing around), and replete and content from the food, I kept looking at my tent fondly as it beckoned with open flaps. It was only 09.00 p.m., but out here in the wild, if you stripped away the hulking SUV and its headlights, the music, the lit-up tents, the barbeque and the torches, it might have felt like the middle of the night.

By the time food is done and we sit around contemplating what to do, it is 09.30 p.m. This being the great outdoors the light is still too dim to play the games we got and so we just chat. The lack of beamed entertainment drains our childrens' spirit and boredom sets in. Their mood impacts ours and just as we are beginning to get annoyed at their lack of appreciation of the rustic life, we decide to alleviate their hardship by giving them chocolates and for us some post dinner beverages. Eventually tired (and a bit bored) of sitting around the campfire, everyone starts to drift away to their respective tents, until only a few die hard pioneers stay back to keep watch and fuel the fire. By 10.30 p.m. the site is still and hushed and the only thing to disturb us is the pop and crackle of the fire, the sound of intermittently passing cars on the road above us, and the revving SUV engines of thrill seeking dune bashers, as they try and circumvent the dunes around us. By mid-night even these are gone, and then it is only the snores of fellow campers to indicate any human presence. In the middle of the night you realize that your tent is pitched on a slight slope and the silky sleeping bags keep making you slip downhill every time you move, but you are too tired to care. By morning it is only the one fabric wall of the tent, pegged firmly into the ground with my entire family’s legs pushing against it, that is keeping us from sliding enmass into the campfire.

We get up at the crack of dawn, and some intrepid soul has already put the water for tea to heat on the fire. Since there is no facility to brush one’s teeth or wash ones face, (much to the children’s delight) all that is required is to walk a few meters away to pee into the wind. One feels a unique bonding with nature at this intimate act being performed in such a way, just as one prays fervently that no other scatological act will be required that morning. The campsite is a hubbub of activity as the morning tea and breakfast is being prepared. There is again a spread of eggs, sandwiches, biscuits and other savories, meats, and a selection of cheeses on offer. I am not hungry and my stomach is rumbling from last night’s meal, but since when has that prevented me from tucking in, at the sight of such food. Breakfast done we now look around at the sheer beauty of nature. We struggle over the small dune to look upon a beach and the ocean and decide to go for a walk. A few hundred meters down we realize that the desert sun has already become too strong, and that if we do not start packing up soon, the heat will get unbearable. We return and begin the tedious task of packing up and taking the tents down. Since there is no technique involved here I can also be of help, and I am thankful for the open sky and a strong wind which masks my farts as I bend over to take out the tent pegs. I notice that putting a tent back into its bag is infinitely more difficult than taking it out, and make a mental note of next time volunteering to set up the tents rather than folding them back. By this time my stomach is aching to empty its contents and I cannot wait to get within sight of a restroom. By 08.30 a.m. we have managed to pack everything. We scan around to ensure that we have not left an ecological footprint, and as we depart I salute the site with a gaseous release.

It is 10.00 a.m. as we reach home and I frantically rush for the bathroom. I thank the fact that most people cannot take the desert sun for too long and hence our camping trips do not extend beyond sunset to sunrise. As I relieve myself, I swear that I will subsist on salads for a week as penance for the dietary deprivation during our sojourn in the wild. As we start putting our tent and sleeping bags back into the store room, the family talks about being one with nature, and our collective experience in the wild and the hardships endured. We look forward to the next camping trip to get closer still, maybe with portable satellite TV’s and auto cleansing chemical toilets, not to leave out catered food to alleviate the adversity.

Well not immediately, but maybe a few years down the road.