My reunion with Dominique was as effusive as it was emotional. He’d been 34 when I’d last set eyes on him. Now 80 he seemed as fit and enthusiastic as ever as he introduced me to my co-Kolkatans, journalists and humanitarians from all over the world: an economist from Italian newspaper La Repubblica, a features writer from Vanity Fair, a fiscal lawyer from Milan, an philanthropic entrepreneur from Amsterdam, a news reporter from Switzerland, charity workers from the Napa Valley, a French documentary maker, a Spanish film crew – fine and motley one and all.
On Day One, we breakfast early and leave the hotel in a convoy of bone-rattling mini-buses. The scenery has not improved since yesterday and just beyond the city centre, the road runs out of tarmac. The bus bumps in and out of potholes big enough to bath in, shaking our diverse group into a cultured cocktail. In the absence of seatbelts, we hang on for dear life. The aircon vents in the roof begin to leak, dripping water onto those seated below. We accommodate as best we can. Soon the actual road runs out leaving only dirt track.
We weave on for miles through villages and shanty towns . . . om shanti, shanti, shanty. Industry in the form of headboard-carvers, palm-frond choppers and cauliflower vendors line the dusty way. Water buffalo amble along en route to who knows where.
As we approach our first stop, ICOD: The Interreligious Centre of Development deep in the heart of West Bengal, posters tacked to tree trunks and telegraph pole welcome Dominique Dada and his wife, Dominique Didi - Big Brother and Big Sister.
In the 1980s, the Lapierres journeyed to Calcutta to meet and research the life and work of Mother Teresa. The experience moved them so profoundly, they felt compelled to get involved and since then, through tireless fund-raising and the donation millions of dollars of his personal royalties, Dominique has build up a network of schools, clinics, hospital ships and rehabilitation centres to cure, care for and educate those children who would otherwise have perished from poverty, malnutrition and diseases long since eradicated in the West.
Our buses pull up and out we spill into the blinding sunlight. We are immediately surrounded and swept along to the beat of a band of drums. A troupe of young male stilt-walkers dressed in red dhotis dance around us. Firecrackers explode in the air; jets of crazy foam rain down on our coiffures. Brightly-clad women and children shower us with flower petals. Others rush forward and bedeck our necks with garlands of sunny marigolds.
The welcome is overwhelming. Mr & Mrs Dominique Lapierre are regarded as Saints. He was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 2008, the highest civilian accolade in India. Their arrival, and ours it seems, is viewed as a great honour.
Babes in arms sporting charcoal bindis on their temples to ward off the evil eye stare at us with curiosity. Little girls in traditional dress blink shyly with their kohl-encircled eyes. Some reach out to touch our pallid Western skin. Ashamedly, I pull away, wiggling a wave instead. I’m ignorant, uncertain, unsure how to behave. If I’m honest, I’m afraid of catching something...
The local women hold their hands together in prayer position and bow their heads, greeting us with ‘Namaste’ and ‘Namaskar’. I know Namaste from my yoga class but Namaskar?
I bow to God in you; I love you and respect you as there is no one like you.
Wow! I feel totally unworthy. I have donated nothing except my presence to this trip. I live a gilded life of luxury and excess. I know nothing of their hardship, nothing of their plight. So I too lower my head in humility and guilt. Maybe I shouldn’t have flown Business Class after all. Some of the ladies in our group dab tears from their eyes.
Saturday, 10 March 2012
Monday, 30 January 2012
KOLKATA contd....
I awake from a restless sleep punctuated by men snoring and babies crying. Sitting forward in my seat, I peer out of the window. The horizon is on fire: a dazzling curve of flame sandwiched between the darkness and the dawn. Beneath us, spread out like an old embroidered carpet, lies the Jewel in the Crown of the British Empire: India! At last!
We disembark into the dirtiest airport I’ve ever seen. The once-white marble is grey with grime, the walls splattered and stained, the floors filthy with food and coffee spills. Flying insects buzz about. A moth the size of a sparrow flaps past my face. I duck in terror and beat my hands about my head, suddenly afraid to breathe. What other horrors lurk in this fetid air? Will I catch cholera, typhoid, dengue fever? My first Calcutta cramp heralds a bout of Delhi belly, confirming my stomach’s total disregard for geography.
I exit through immigration into a heaving horde of humanity. An onslaught of sweat and spices assaults my nostrils. Meeters and greeters swell forward straining to find their arrivees. They wave and call out in Hindu and Bengali. Behind them, buses and taxis hoot impatiently as they try to navigate the stragglers who’ve spilled into the road. Goats graze indifferently alongside old men crouching on their haunches against the terminal building chewing betel leaves and smoking bidis.
I peer at the hand-written name cards but none of them bears mine. A mild panic besets me, then there, amongst the mêlée, like an oasis in the desert, stand a regiment of beaming, white-clad drivers bearing boards. The comforting logo of the Oberoi Grand Hotel beckons me like a long-lost lover as my name hoves into view. Take me home, Shankar, I mutter, and allow myself to be guided towards the air-conditioned car.
The journey from the airport is sphincter-clenching. I can’t work out which side of the road they drive on as they appear to use all the lanes at once. Knackered old buses with passengers hanging off the roofs, motorbikes a-wobble with entire families, cyclos, taxis, trams, trucks, tuk-tuks, rickshaws - all hurtle towards each other in a dance of Destination Death.
Road signs advise: Alert Today, Alive Tomorrow and Take Your Time Not Your Life. When my driver goes over his third red light, I ask tremulously: “Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” to which he laughs jovially and replies:
“Oh no, Madame. Red light is only a suggestion.”
As we approach the city centre, a modern monolith or two rises up out of the gutters which house huddles of rag-clad beggars. Beneath a flyover flying nowhere, a market has been set up selling cracked toilet cisterns, sections of old piping, scrap metal, rusty chains.
A dead dog lies in the road, its entrails spilling out, inviting anyone peckish enough to sample its bloody buffet: Come Die With Me.
The driver points proudly to the Victoria Memorial looming out of the early morning mist. Standing in a lush green garden, it bears testament to the long gone Days of the Raj and the supremacy of its ruler, Queen Victoria, Empress of India and all her dominions.
Eventually we arrive at the wrought-iron gates of the Grand Hotel and enter this hallowed enclave which, as the week progresses, becomes a haven of calm and karma from the madness of the street.
We disembark into the dirtiest airport I’ve ever seen. The once-white marble is grey with grime, the walls splattered and stained, the floors filthy with food and coffee spills. Flying insects buzz about. A moth the size of a sparrow flaps past my face. I duck in terror and beat my hands about my head, suddenly afraid to breathe. What other horrors lurk in this fetid air? Will I catch cholera, typhoid, dengue fever? My first Calcutta cramp heralds a bout of Delhi belly, confirming my stomach’s total disregard for geography.
I exit through immigration into a heaving horde of humanity. An onslaught of sweat and spices assaults my nostrils. Meeters and greeters swell forward straining to find their arrivees. They wave and call out in Hindu and Bengali. Behind them, buses and taxis hoot impatiently as they try to navigate the stragglers who’ve spilled into the road. Goats graze indifferently alongside old men crouching on their haunches against the terminal building chewing betel leaves and smoking bidis.
I peer at the hand-written name cards but none of them bears mine. A mild panic besets me, then there, amongst the mêlée, like an oasis in the desert, stand a regiment of beaming, white-clad drivers bearing boards. The comforting logo of the Oberoi Grand Hotel beckons me like a long-lost lover as my name hoves into view. Take me home, Shankar, I mutter, and allow myself to be guided towards the air-conditioned car.
The journey from the airport is sphincter-clenching. I can’t work out which side of the road they drive on as they appear to use all the lanes at once. Knackered old buses with passengers hanging off the roofs, motorbikes a-wobble with entire families, cyclos, taxis, trams, trucks, tuk-tuks, rickshaws - all hurtle towards each other in a dance of Destination Death.
Road signs advise: Alert Today, Alive Tomorrow and Take Your Time Not Your Life. When my driver goes over his third red light, I ask tremulously: “Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” to which he laughs jovially and replies:
“Oh no, Madame. Red light is only a suggestion.”
As we approach the city centre, a modern monolith or two rises up out of the gutters which house huddles of rag-clad beggars. Beneath a flyover flying nowhere, a market has been set up selling cracked toilet cisterns, sections of old piping, scrap metal, rusty chains.
A dead dog lies in the road, its entrails spilling out, inviting anyone peckish enough to sample its bloody buffet: Come Die With Me.
The driver points proudly to the Victoria Memorial looming out of the early morning mist. Standing in a lush green garden, it bears testament to the long gone Days of the Raj and the supremacy of its ruler, Queen Victoria, Empress of India and all her dominions.
Eventually we arrive at the wrought-iron gates of the Grand Hotel and enter this hallowed enclave which, as the week progresses, becomes a haven of calm and karma from the madness of the street.
Monday, 12 December 2011
KOLKATA - The City That Never Sweeps.
Calcutta! What sensuous energy does this name evoke? Maharajas riding painted elephants. Tiffin wallahs serving British Officers on colonial club lawns. Dark exotic beauties with jasmine in their hair. . .
Forget all that. It’s called Kolkata now and it’s a drab, decaying bag lady of a place behind whose tragic eyes – if you look hard enough - still burn the dying embers of an old remembered flame.
And yet this savage city is still able to seduce, to draw you in and clutch you against her pounding breast.
At first glance, everything seems hopeless – broken down, bashed up and busted. Great mountains of garbage litter the streets, picked over by dogs, cats, vermin and, pitifully, children. Amidst this detritus, the street people live, families of pavement dwellers who gather beneath flyovers and on sidewalks with nowhere else to go. They’re not ‘homeless’ as we know it – the street is their home.
And yet they live with dignity, rising at dawn from their concrete mattresses to perform the holy ritual of cleanliness. There, at any nearby standpipe, they wash themselves with diligence, brushing their teeth and scrubbing their clothes in the abundant waters from the annual monsoon rains.
When it was first suggested I visit Kolkata, I politely declined. I’d always longed to travel through India but saw myself more suited to the marble palaces of romantic Rajasthan. The purpose of the trip proved irresistible however - to meet a man I’d worked with when I was just 19, the prolific author Dominique Lapierre whose epic masterpiece The City of Joy documenting life in the slums of Calcutta was translated into 31 languages and made into a film starring Patrick Swayze.
I’d first met Dominique and his co-author Larry Collins in Spain in the 1960s. Whilst researching and interpreting …or I’ll Dress You in Mourning, the biography of the iconic bullfighter Manuel Benítez ‘El Cordobés’, I was flung into a relationship with the charismatic matador. Now, 46 years later, here was my ex-boss offering to introduce me to yet another world.
In the early 1980s, Dominique Lapierre and his wife journeyed to Calcutta to meet Mother Teresa. The experience moved them so profoundly, they felt compelled to help the under-privileged children of West Bengal. These tiny scraps of humanity perished by the thousand, victims of malnutrition, poverty and diseases almost eradicated in the Western world.
The City of Joy Aid Organisation was founded as a non-profit making humanitarian project dedicated to rescuing, rehabilitating, educating and ameliorating all those little lives. By donating millions of dollars of his personal royalties, Dominique’s altruism and that of his supporters has created a network of clinics, schools, hospital boats and rehabilitation centres so that children who would otherwise have died of leprosy, tuberculosis and malaria, or grown up blind or crippled by polio could learn to read, write, walk, talk, play football and best of all, smile.
My mood as I packed for the trip was ‘flapprehensive’. Travelling alone, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was that the term ‘city of joy’ was probably an irony, and as I locked my front door and left the luxury of my home, I was already looking forward to unlocking it on my return.
Forget all that. It’s called Kolkata now and it’s a drab, decaying bag lady of a place behind whose tragic eyes – if you look hard enough - still burn the dying embers of an old remembered flame.
And yet this savage city is still able to seduce, to draw you in and clutch you against her pounding breast.
At first glance, everything seems hopeless – broken down, bashed up and busted. Great mountains of garbage litter the streets, picked over by dogs, cats, vermin and, pitifully, children. Amidst this detritus, the street people live, families of pavement dwellers who gather beneath flyovers and on sidewalks with nowhere else to go. They’re not ‘homeless’ as we know it – the street is their home.
And yet they live with dignity, rising at dawn from their concrete mattresses to perform the holy ritual of cleanliness. There, at any nearby standpipe, they wash themselves with diligence, brushing their teeth and scrubbing their clothes in the abundant waters from the annual monsoon rains.
When it was first suggested I visit Kolkata, I politely declined. I’d always longed to travel through India but saw myself more suited to the marble palaces of romantic Rajasthan. The purpose of the trip proved irresistible however - to meet a man I’d worked with when I was just 19, the prolific author Dominique Lapierre whose epic masterpiece The City of Joy documenting life in the slums of Calcutta was translated into 31 languages and made into a film starring Patrick Swayze.
I’d first met Dominique and his co-author Larry Collins in Spain in the 1960s. Whilst researching and interpreting …or I’ll Dress You in Mourning, the biography of the iconic bullfighter Manuel Benítez ‘El Cordobés’, I was flung into a relationship with the charismatic matador. Now, 46 years later, here was my ex-boss offering to introduce me to yet another world.
In the early 1980s, Dominique Lapierre and his wife journeyed to Calcutta to meet Mother Teresa. The experience moved them so profoundly, they felt compelled to help the under-privileged children of West Bengal. These tiny scraps of humanity perished by the thousand, victims of malnutrition, poverty and diseases almost eradicated in the Western world.
The City of Joy Aid Organisation was founded as a non-profit making humanitarian project dedicated to rescuing, rehabilitating, educating and ameliorating all those little lives. By donating millions of dollars of his personal royalties, Dominique’s altruism and that of his supporters has created a network of clinics, schools, hospital boats and rehabilitation centres so that children who would otherwise have died of leprosy, tuberculosis and malaria, or grown up blind or crippled by polio could learn to read, write, walk, talk, play football and best of all, smile.
My mood as I packed for the trip was ‘flapprehensive’. Travelling alone, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was that the term ‘city of joy’ was probably an irony, and as I locked my front door and left the luxury of my home, I was already looking forward to unlocking it on my return.
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
NOT MY MOTHER RUSSIA
“In an uncertain world, all things are ‘usually...’”
So said our guide on our first morning in Moscow in response to the question: “Is it usually this cold in November?”
He followed this philosophy with another Russian gem:
“Take wodka on waking then you von’t have to vorry all day what time to have your first drink.”
Russia has always held a macabre fascination for me. Both sets of grandparents were Russian Jewish immigrants chased out by the Bolsheviks in the late 1800s during the pogroms. One uncle was thrown in the Volga with rocks tied round his ankles. Another was cut off in his prime by marauding horsemen wielding sabres. No ‘Mother Russia’ gathered my family unto her breast and so they dispersed in the diaspora to Buenos Aires, Brooklyn and Bayswater. Yet here I was returning to the land of my forefathers.
I’m not sure what I expected of Moscow but it wasn’t what I expected. I’d seen the footage of grey-coated, fur-hatted armies marching across a snow-brushed Red Square while grim-faced generals took the salute. I knew about the poverty and deprivation, families living ten to a room with barely a bowl of barley soup between them. I’d heard of dissidents being tortured by the KGB and youngsters yearning for a simple pair of jeans. But when Communism collapsed, Moscow went West to bring bling to the people.
Moscow is the capital of the world’s biggest country, the beating heart of European Russia. The architecture is a fusion of splendour and austerity: affluence in the shape of ornate Belle Époque classicism battling for supremacy over inevitable Cold War concrete. Lavish cathedrals with golden cupolas stand serenely in the shadow of thick set apartment blocks. Flashy shop fronts house French and Italian franchises; restaurants serve Asian Fusion cuisine and late-night Karaoke bars proclaim the shaking off of state-imposed imperialism.
The centre is spotless; wide avenues called ‘Prospekts’ are lined with grand baroque buildings reeking of Tsarist times. Dark forbidding structures in which 007, 8 and 9must surely have been interrogated seem less sinister with a branch of McDonald’s at street level.
Our agenda for Day One offered a City Tour but it omitted the word ‘walking’. The implied coach, minibus or private car was, in fact, Sergei, on time and on foot. We set off into the cold crisp morning ill-equipped against the Siberian wind that whistled through our very bones within minutes of leaving the overheated comfort of the National Hotel.
The pavements around the Kremlin are kept pristine by a militia of lady cleaners diligently disposing of every stray fag end, waste paper or leaf that dares to fall. One of them was beating the hell out of a tree so her co-worker could rake up the remnants and cart them away. Autumn and its attendant untidiness is not welcome here...
To be continued...
So said our guide on our first morning in Moscow in response to the question: “Is it usually this cold in November?”
He followed this philosophy with another Russian gem:
“Take wodka on waking then you von’t have to vorry all day what time to have your first drink.”
Russia has always held a macabre fascination for me. Both sets of grandparents were Russian Jewish immigrants chased out by the Bolsheviks in the late 1800s during the pogroms. One uncle was thrown in the Volga with rocks tied round his ankles. Another was cut off in his prime by marauding horsemen wielding sabres. No ‘Mother Russia’ gathered my family unto her breast and so they dispersed in the diaspora to Buenos Aires, Brooklyn and Bayswater. Yet here I was returning to the land of my forefathers.
I’m not sure what I expected of Moscow but it wasn’t what I expected. I’d seen the footage of grey-coated, fur-hatted armies marching across a snow-brushed Red Square while grim-faced generals took the salute. I knew about the poverty and deprivation, families living ten to a room with barely a bowl of barley soup between them. I’d heard of dissidents being tortured by the KGB and youngsters yearning for a simple pair of jeans. But when Communism collapsed, Moscow went West to bring bling to the people.
Moscow is the capital of the world’s biggest country, the beating heart of European Russia. The architecture is a fusion of splendour and austerity: affluence in the shape of ornate Belle Époque classicism battling for supremacy over inevitable Cold War concrete. Lavish cathedrals with golden cupolas stand serenely in the shadow of thick set apartment blocks. Flashy shop fronts house French and Italian franchises; restaurants serve Asian Fusion cuisine and late-night Karaoke bars proclaim the shaking off of state-imposed imperialism.
The centre is spotless; wide avenues called ‘Prospekts’ are lined with grand baroque buildings reeking of Tsarist times. Dark forbidding structures in which 007, 8 and 9must surely have been interrogated seem less sinister with a branch of McDonald’s at street level.
Our agenda for Day One offered a City Tour but it omitted the word ‘walking’. The implied coach, minibus or private car was, in fact, Sergei, on time and on foot. We set off into the cold crisp morning ill-equipped against the Siberian wind that whistled through our very bones within minutes of leaving the overheated comfort of the National Hotel.
The pavements around the Kremlin are kept pristine by a militia of lady cleaners diligently disposing of every stray fag end, waste paper or leaf that dares to fall. One of them was beating the hell out of a tree so her co-worker could rake up the remnants and cart them away. Autumn and its attendant untidiness is not welcome here...
To be continued...
Wednesday, 26 October 2011
INDEPENDENT WOMAN!
Check out this feature in today's INDEPENDENT:
http://www.independent.co.uk/travel/europe/a-spanish-love-affair-2375777.html
Great publicity for BLOOD ON THE SAND!
http://www.independent.co.uk/travel/europe/a-spanish-love-affair-2375777.html
Great publicity for BLOOD ON THE SAND!
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
BLOOD ON THE SAND
...IS NOW AVAILABLE ON AMAZON KINDLE!!!
Please tell all your friends to tell all their friends to download it onto their e-readers, computers, laptops, i-Pods or i-Pads.
The link is:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Blood-on-the-Sand-ebook/dp/B005Z5FG3G/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1319531514&sr=8-5
and it's priced at a bargain £1.71! How cool is that?!
Here's what the press says:
The first novel from the bestselling author of THE TOYBOY DIARIES (Old Street Publishing) this is set in the vividly evoked and heady atmosphere of 1960s Spain.
BLOOD ON THE SAND IS a highly entertaining, raunchy and fast-paced drama as young Cassi Samuels sets out from swinging 1960s London into the arms of El Macho, the leading bullfighter of the day. From innocent virgin to abused wife living her life in the eye of the media, Cassi faces tragedy and the ruin of her dreams.
High in emotion, the story takes us on a roller-coaster ride through her life and loves in the heat and dust of Andalucia.
This remarkable novel is inspired by Wendy’s own romantic involvement with the iconic matador El Cordobés. Wendy came to be part of his circle when she was acting as the Spanish interpreter for Dominique Lapierre and Larry Collins then working on the biography of El Cordobés: '… or I’ll Dress You in Mourning'.
BLOOD ON THE SAND is a fictional imagining of what might have been, had Wendy stayed in Spain and married her bullfighter.
Please tell all your friends to tell all their friends to download it onto their e-readers, computers, laptops, i-Pods or i-Pads.
The link is:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Blood-on-the-Sand-ebook/dp/B005Z5FG3G/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1319531514&sr=8-5
and it's priced at a bargain £1.71! How cool is that?!
Here's what the press says:
The first novel from the bestselling author of THE TOYBOY DIARIES (Old Street Publishing) this is set in the vividly evoked and heady atmosphere of 1960s Spain.
BLOOD ON THE SAND IS a highly entertaining, raunchy and fast-paced drama as young Cassi Samuels sets out from swinging 1960s London into the arms of El Macho, the leading bullfighter of the day. From innocent virgin to abused wife living her life in the eye of the media, Cassi faces tragedy and the ruin of her dreams.
High in emotion, the story takes us on a roller-coaster ride through her life and loves in the heat and dust of Andalucia.
This remarkable novel is inspired by Wendy’s own romantic involvement with the iconic matador El Cordobés. Wendy came to be part of his circle when she was acting as the Spanish interpreter for Dominique Lapierre and Larry Collins then working on the biography of El Cordobés: '… or I’ll Dress You in Mourning'.
BLOOD ON THE SAND is a fictional imagining of what might have been, had Wendy stayed in Spain and married her bullfighter.
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
BLOODY MARVELLOUS!!
I have at last up - or is it down - loaded my first novel BLOOD ON THE SAND onto Amazon Kindle. This is very exciting!!!
It came out in Spain last year but will be available any day for all my English friends to read. I'll keep you posted on the link so you can get Kindling. You don't need to own an actual e-reader - you can down - or is it upload the programme onto any PC, Mac, lap or desktop.
It's all been so exhausting I now need to lie down in a darkened room so until the next blog, have a little read of this review to whet your appetites and thank you all for your support.
We are in the early ’60s. Cassi Samuels is an English girl of 18 who lives with her parents and older sister in London. She’s an innocent ingénue and one thing is clear: losing her virginity to just anyone is not on her agenda.
On a trip to Spain, she discovers the passionate world of bullfighting. On returning home, she covers her bedrooms walls with bullfight posters as if they were film stars. A little later, she flunks her exams on purpose and convinces her parents to allow her to complete her language studies through travel. Her destination: Andalucía.
Fate introduces her to a writer commissioned to write the biography of Rafael Romero “El Macho”, THE bullfighter of the day. As Cassi speaks Spanish, she is employed as interpreter which allows her to meet her idol.
But things do not go according to plan: although he is attracted to her, it is only to add her to his list of conquests before treating her with the utmost contempt. In any other circumstances, this should have sent her scurrying home but Cassi is inexperienced and thinks what has happened is normal. She is therefore prepared to give him another chance, especially when her very traditional family disinherit her after she tells them she’s in love with a bullfighter.
Locked away on his ranch expecting their child, she becomes the victim of a violent husband who has no intention of ever being faithful.
What captivated me most about this novel is without doubt the intensity of the characters’ feelings. It is a novel of extremes: on the one hand we have “El Macho” being cruel and cool, prepared to achieve his goals even if it means harming others – and on the other hand we have the young Cassi, naive, sweet and easy to manipulate often seeming silly for not opening her eyes.
There is no middle ground. The other characters are either charming or hateful and it is impossible not to side with Cassi and wish with all your heart that her situation improves.
This novel is very dramatic. It transcends the normal romantic genres which often seem superficial and trite with over-idealized love stories.
In this book, great passion is transmitted to the reader which shows that the author has achieved her purpose. The book becomes a perfect choice for those looking to enjoy a good read with authentic feelings and conflicts between the protagonists.
Importantly, the intensity of the feelings grow as the story progresses. When things start to seem predictable, something unexpected happens that grips your heart and gives you butterflies.
The author retains the reader’s attention and knows when and how to enhance the highlights. I often thought “too much melodrama” while reading, but I don’t think this is a defect: it is sometimes good to read a book that reflects the best and worst of human passions.
The other noteworthy aspect of this novel is its entertainment value. It hooks you with its simple yet fluid style and has everything a read should have. As many people only read for entertainment or to escape reality BLOOD ON THE SAND achieves this.
There is plenty of action and the story never stagnates. It has surprising twists, which in this genre are not always easy to find. It’s impossible to get bored.
If this were a film adaptation, it could be a pretty decent movie. The book is very visual and precisely because it is full of passion, it would work well on screen.
BLOOD ON THE SAND may not be the soap opera of the century and despite being listed as ‘romance’, it goes beyond the clichés of this genre. This is a work full of passion that never leaves the reader bored. The plot twists take place at the right time; the story is very well constructed. I enjoyed the flavours of gypsy Spain and the extremism of the characters. Formally, these are not positives, but I found them entertaining just the same.
In short, this is a highly recommended option if you are a demanding reader who enjoys books full of passion and feeling.
It came out in Spain last year but will be available any day for all my English friends to read. I'll keep you posted on the link so you can get Kindling. You don't need to own an actual e-reader - you can down - or is it upload the programme onto any PC, Mac, lap or desktop.
It's all been so exhausting I now need to lie down in a darkened room so until the next blog, have a little read of this review to whet your appetites and thank you all for your support.
We are in the early ’60s. Cassi Samuels is an English girl of 18 who lives with her parents and older sister in London. She’s an innocent ingénue and one thing is clear: losing her virginity to just anyone is not on her agenda.
On a trip to Spain, she discovers the passionate world of bullfighting. On returning home, she covers her bedrooms walls with bullfight posters as if they were film stars. A little later, she flunks her exams on purpose and convinces her parents to allow her to complete her language studies through travel. Her destination: Andalucía.
Fate introduces her to a writer commissioned to write the biography of Rafael Romero “El Macho”, THE bullfighter of the day. As Cassi speaks Spanish, she is employed as interpreter which allows her to meet her idol.
But things do not go according to plan: although he is attracted to her, it is only to add her to his list of conquests before treating her with the utmost contempt. In any other circumstances, this should have sent her scurrying home but Cassi is inexperienced and thinks what has happened is normal. She is therefore prepared to give him another chance, especially when her very traditional family disinherit her after she tells them she’s in love with a bullfighter.
Locked away on his ranch expecting their child, she becomes the victim of a violent husband who has no intention of ever being faithful.
What captivated me most about this novel is without doubt the intensity of the characters’ feelings. It is a novel of extremes: on the one hand we have “El Macho” being cruel and cool, prepared to achieve his goals even if it means harming others – and on the other hand we have the young Cassi, naive, sweet and easy to manipulate often seeming silly for not opening her eyes.
There is no middle ground. The other characters are either charming or hateful and it is impossible not to side with Cassi and wish with all your heart that her situation improves.
This novel is very dramatic. It transcends the normal romantic genres which often seem superficial and trite with over-idealized love stories.
In this book, great passion is transmitted to the reader which shows that the author has achieved her purpose. The book becomes a perfect choice for those looking to enjoy a good read with authentic feelings and conflicts between the protagonists.
Importantly, the intensity of the feelings grow as the story progresses. When things start to seem predictable, something unexpected happens that grips your heart and gives you butterflies.
The author retains the reader’s attention and knows when and how to enhance the highlights. I often thought “too much melodrama” while reading, but I don’t think this is a defect: it is sometimes good to read a book that reflects the best and worst of human passions.
The other noteworthy aspect of this novel is its entertainment value. It hooks you with its simple yet fluid style and has everything a read should have. As many people only read for entertainment or to escape reality BLOOD ON THE SAND achieves this.
There is plenty of action and the story never stagnates. It has surprising twists, which in this genre are not always easy to find. It’s impossible to get bored.
If this were a film adaptation, it could be a pretty decent movie. The book is very visual and precisely because it is full of passion, it would work well on screen.
BLOOD ON THE SAND may not be the soap opera of the century and despite being listed as ‘romance’, it goes beyond the clichés of this genre. This is a work full of passion that never leaves the reader bored. The plot twists take place at the right time; the story is very well constructed. I enjoyed the flavours of gypsy Spain and the extremism of the characters. Formally, these are not positives, but I found them entertaining just the same.
In short, this is a highly recommended option if you are a demanding reader who enjoys books full of passion and feeling.
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