The weather has calmed and it's quiet now. I realise this is another isolated place. Three Swiss women come during the week and run a small aromatherapy business in one of the buildings here. Who knows what kind of arrangement they have with the dirty old despot. We don't see much of them.
A couple who live on a neighbouring piece of land also come over now and again to do some cleaning. Cleaning what, I don't know. Maybe they follow Buzzel around his house, mopping up the hypocrisy as it accumulates in his wake. The guest house and other yurts are all empty. There is no one else around.
With fewer people about my attention moves onto nature and my surroundings. The light brown rolling mountains dotted with grey and green, and of course the white of the ubiquitous wind turbines. The trees and reeds by the lake, all facing away from the wind, permanently angled, lop-sided. The gentle ripples of the wind on the water. Tentative birdsong and grasshopper sounds, the occasional bell or chime on the wind.
There are turtles in the lake and I've seen a few raptors soaring high above, seemingly motionless as they glide through the air. One eagle even floated down to perhaps fifteen metres, casting its eye around the lake here. I stood silently in awe of its majesty as it made a few slow circles then effortlessly glided away towards the mountainside. It took a while for the little swallows to return to their water-skimming.
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