Lena the Octopus

In the late 90s and early 00s I shot a few weddings in Bali for Australian couples. The classiest wedding was for a couple who had lived and worked a decade in Bali - he was an architect and she was the marketing manager for a chain of upmarket hotels throughout Asia. Both were born and bred West Aussies.

I survived a series of serious parties in the days and nights leading up to wedding day. The reception was held at a lavish five star hotel at Candi Desa. I put in a big effort photographing the beautiful bride and her charming groom (who also was a dyed-in-the-wool Docker's supporter).

Candlelit tables were clustered precariously close to poolside just a hundred metres from the surf. A balmy, tropical evening - the mood was relaxed, romantic and joyous, the air laden with the delicious scent of frangipani and jasmine. My job as photographer was almost done. I enjoyed a glass of champagne and another and sampled the exotic food.  Now in relaxed mode I approached the dance floor that was thumping to electrified sounds and was lit by a kaleidoscope of pulsating coloured lights.

Out of the darkness leapt a young woman who grabbed my hand and dragged me into the middle of the dance floor. I had never seen her before - not even among the wedding guests. She could easily have won the next heat of 'Dancing with the Stars'. She gyrated and twirled and swung me this way and that. In the darkness I felt every inch of her svelte body as she pulsed with the music. This was better than champagne. She didn't stop. She didn't interrupt her seductive, serpent like movements when she told me her name was Lena.

I thought Holey Shamoley! Who IS this creature from the dark lagoon? I have to get a  shot. I let auto-exposue and auto everything do their things because I couldn't see a damn thing.  She wrapped me up in her tentacles again as we continued this crazy, seductive dance with my tiny Leica gasping for air.

Then poof! In an instant, she was gone! She disappeared into the Balinese darkness like an Indonesian shadow puppet.

I had a sleepless night. I dreamt of Lena and Leicas.

The next morning hundreds of wedding guests were in the luxurious open-sided restaurant overlooking a milky sea, enjoying breakfast and recounting stories from the wedding, the parties and the guests.  I experienced the best egg breakfast of my life - scrambled eggs with black truffle oil on hot buttered toast. The truffle oil vapours permeate the back of your throat and air passages and give you the equivalent of a nasal orgasm.

If that wasn't enough my heart leapt as I saw my exotic 'dirty dancer' Lena enter the restaurant followed by a man and a couple of young ankle-biters. I couldn't help myself, I just had to go up and say 'Good Morning'.
She looked up from her table perplexed and with the expression of a stunned mullet.
'Sorry who are you?  she asked.
I was taken aback. How could my dancing dream girl NOT remember me?
'You were dancing with me at the wedding last night', I said.
'I'm sorry, I don't remember at all'
Bugger! Deflation set in ..... permanently.

Two days later I was enjoying a farewell drink with the newly married couple before flying back to Australia. I related the story about Lena. The bride's eyes narrowed and she looked like a judge about to deliver a death sentence on a  prisoner.
'You mean Lena the Octopus'
'Octopus?' I queried
'Women here know that Lena's like an octopus around men'
(To be truthful I had noticed Lena's all embracing tentacles)
'Actually she wasn't invited to the wedding', the bride continued 'she just sort of turned up. Hubby babysat in the room while she partied'

ooOoo

These days I love eating octopus and have my own speciality dish called Octopus Lena - raw naked octopus  marinated in truffle oil with a hint of ginger and a whack of chilli.

Dinner for One

'Living on earth is expensive, but it does include a free trip around the sun once a year'

The Ranger squinted at me through the dirty, cracked windscreen and in a monotonic voice said,

'Jane turned her 4WD over sixty kilometres down the track. She and the kids are being flown to hospital with the Royal Flying Doctor'

I carried the battered contents of Jane's car inside the house and sat down, alone. Just me and my soup. I ate the bread. Silently, I photographed my soup on film.

Through the window of the dining room I could see the southern tip of Dirk Hartog Island under a full moon. I was sitting alone in a large sprawling stone mansion just fifty metres from the Indian Ocean just east of Steep Point. Apart from the Ranger's cottage this was the western most house in Australia.

What set out to be  a week of private coaching for my student Jane ended up being a week of a Robinson Crusoe existence on one of the world's most exotic shorelines.

The difference was I was in a massive three wing building with an auto-start power plant, my own desalination system and a cellar with a hundred bottles of the finest wines.

There was no vehicle, no telephone, no radio, no television. I did have a camera, twenty rolls of film, a fishing line and a feeling of trepidation being on my own in this magical place.

The moon shone through the open window of my west wing bedroom and, aided by a bottle of fine red wine, I pondered what I would do for a week, on my own, in this remote, romantic location. Except for the gentle lapping of the waves on a moonlit shore there was nothing. Not even a friendly mosquito. My mind drifted to places I'd adventured in and faces I had imaged.