3 months ago: The Caribbean Revisited

Last August I had the great pleasure to be invited back to Union Island, in St. Vincent & The Grenadines; this time as a guest at Big Sands hotel, which was recently bought by the owners of Deluxe Traveller Magazine. It was an opportunity to work with Kenneth on the next edition of the mag, see some old friends from Canouan Island, and of course, enjoy some diving in the beautiful Tobago Quays.

The happy tracker shows you how it's done...

For those of you who have never been on a land safari, there are two important job roles per vehicle. There's the ranger, who is also the driver, and of course, an expert in all things wildlife and nature. Then you have a tracker, who is usually a ranger in training, and his (or her) main job is to sit up front on a high chair to scan the reserve for features of interest and interpret animal tracks on the ground as we pass. He then relays the information back to the ranger with a system of hand signals.

Sounds easy?

I decided to give it a go during a morning game tour. Let's take a look at how I did.



I scan the horizon with eagle eyes, searching the dust plains for signs of life.



I try the other direction, thinking I may have seen a significant movement in the bush.




Yes! It's a whole stampede of hungry lions headed straight for us! (I point, to show my brilliant discovery)




I'm terribly pleased with myself. The audience break out into rapturous applause. Now, I truly am a happy tracker.

4 Months Ago: Africa (cont)...

Our second destination was a traditional game lodge in Madikwe Private Game Reserve, South Africa. Having experienced the ultimate river hideaway at Ntwala Island, where we lived side by side with hippos and crocodiles, it was time to venture in land to track down some more of Africa's greatest predators. I was not to be disappointed.

Here's some extracts from my article. Enjoy.

____________________________________________

"...We cross the line between civilisation and wilderness where the highway ends and a dusty track begins. Surrounded on both sides by seemingly infinite bush land, we bump and rattle along a rocky road that runs straight as an arrow. Ahead, a mountainous hill looms closer and closer, dramatic and imposing against the backdrop of a sapphire sky. I scan the horizon for animals as we bounce by, but for now there is only the dense vegetation and the ochre-red earth, which is radiant in the late afternoon light.
Moments after we enter the reserve boundary a large warthog ambles across the road, tusks gleaming in the fading light. A giraffe is nonchalantly chewing leaves from the highest branches of a tree, and a wilder beast stamps nearby in the dust. Welcome to Madikwe..."



"...At one point our tracker moved back into the safety of the vehicle and that could mean only one thing. Lions. A whole pride, in fact. My heart skipped a beat and I surveyed the scene, searching for my first glimpse of a feline form. I was not disappointed. Sixteen lions, including two males, were lazily feasting on yesterday’s kill – the slightly pungent carcass of a giraffe. They appraised us as we approached and I gulped, noticing the immensely powerful muscles of one nearby female. She was huge beyond my imaginings and as soft in appearance as a puppy..."




I spent some time poking around under rocks in and around the lodge, looking for Black Mambas. I didn't find any - maybe that wasn't a bad thing! hehe...

4 Months Ago: Africa

On a sunny morning in Devon I had received news of Africa, and from the floral-printed walls of the breakfast room I had imagined the sound of distant drums and the chanting of many voices. As I stared smilingly into my Earl Grey I could almost hear the roar of lions and the screech of an elephant thumping through the game reserve.

An old acquaintance (discovered quite by luck last December, when I had escaped Canouan for the neighbouring island of Union), had just that morning emailed me to confirm that he would like me to accompany him to Africa, where we would be reviewing two safari lodges for inclusion in his privately owned and published travel magazine, Deluxe Traveller. He wanted me to write the review, while he would be taking the photographs.

Of course, it was an opportunity I couldn't refuse, and so the flights were booked that very day.

A few weeks later I was on my way to Johannesburg, from there to Botswana, and then by river boat to customs at Namibia immigration. Beyond that isolated island outpost on the Chobe River I continued by motor boat to our first destination, The Ntwala Island Lodge: an exclusive retreat in the middle of the Zambezi; accessible only by boat, and surrounded by exotic wildlife, rainforest jungle and surging river rapids. Kenneth Reece, (owner of Deluxe Traveller) was due to meet me there the following day. Here's some excerpts taken from my (as yet unpublished) review.

************

"...Our suite had a spacious sprawling interior and opened onto a huge deck complete with plunge pool. Private hammock seats were perfectly positioned at the waterfront, granting us a front-row view of the vibrant Zambezi River and the tropical islet beyond. An ancient Jackal-Berry tree sprung through the centre of the terrace, standing sentinel over our outside dining area..."














"An afternoon picnic was arranged in the romantic setting of a lush neighbouring island as an alternative to lunch at the lodge. Alfred navigated us over the rapids and we landed on the shore of a pristine tropical oasis called Olive Island. Walking through the jungle canopy we were amazed to discover a beautiful clearing, which stretched down to the river. A picnic blanket had been laid out on the sandy ground and a tantalising feast spread out before us. Champagne glistened invitingly in an icebox and scatter-cushions were arranged for our comfort.
We enjoyed a languid lunch just metres from the rushing rapids, surrounded by the sounds of the jungle: the chattering of monkeys and the chorus of birds. Here was paradise found..."
































"...A great sense of tranquillity filled me as we drifted silently with the current and soaked up the glorious morning sunshine. It was not long before I felt a huge pressure on my line, and began to reel in with all my strength. It was a three-kilo tiger fish, glistening and writhing, showing a gaping maw of tiny teeth. I was delighted. We captured the moment on camera before releasing the fish back into the river to fight another day...."

Return of The Blog!

Being back in England is all too safe and familiar in the wrong kind of way. You could say that I've been afflicted by an unusually long, and utterly incurable case of 'post-holiday' blues. It's been a couple of months since I was back in the home camp without any forseeable future destination of note, and the mundane has been slowly eating away at me with the imperceptible stealth and tenacity of the tide against the land.

That was until a couple of weeks ago when I reconnected with a old friend and planned another great escape - but I'm getting ahead of myself. Let us return to the summer just gone, and I shall finally illuminate my great African adventure, and what came after...

I Love Paris In The Springtime

I am SO late with this blog entry. However I do have an (almost) water-tight excuse for being so slack and lazy. But that's for the next entry, so let us spin the wheel of time back a few weeks to the beginning of May, when my fabulous friend (Jade) and I made a splash in Paris! We immersed ourselves in some high culture, including a trip to see The Mona Lisa. If you haven't had the honour of seeing this classic, I would perhaps advise you not to bother :) I was disappointed. She was ugly and the painting was really, really small. They say that size doesn't matter, however in this case, they are sadly mistaken - an extra feet feet might have given her a facelift of sorts. At this stage most of you are probably thinking that I am a cultureless neanderthal, so I will move swiftly onwards with the tale lest I offend your sensibilities further.

We found ourselves on the well-trodden tourist trail with an unmissable trip to the Eiffel Tower, (it would have been rude not to), and we patronised a few Parisian bars and cafes, ending up one night in a wonderfully seedy jazz / funk club which had thick smoky air and bourgeoise decor - no less than one would expect from a French nightclub. We had a hilarious night meeting (and then avoiding) random French men, who continued to pursue us even though they knew we couldn't understand a word. Although, by the end of the night I HAD picked up enough dialect to have a conversation with a Moroccan man about cous cous. We giggled our way home after our taxi driver inquired whether or not I speak Swaheli, and we drank red wine with the hotel night watch man into the small hours of the morning.



Needless to say, good fun was had by all, and I am planning to go back soon, just to sample some more rare fillet steak, which is something English restaurants just can't seem to get right. The problem is that they err on the side of caution, whereas the French have no qualms about serving their beef with a pulse, and not the bean kind of pulse either. We're talking cow that's still kicking.

Please Do Not Feed The Farmers

I should have been more careful than to send my spontaneous wishes out into the universe, because I usually get exactly what I ask for. I asked for drama and drama was exactly what I got.

I had awoken to a heaven-sent email detailing an opportunity to go to Africa before the end of this month. Humming the theme tune to The Lion King, I managed to make the small window of opportunity for breakfast, which was in a room behind reception, decorated in floral wallpaper with an archway leading through into the kitchen. Beaming like a cheshire cat I ordered some scrambled eggs and helped myself to a mini-pack of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.

Sometime after breakfast I stepped outside into a glorious sunny day. So far so good, I thought.

The nearby pub seemed a quiet place to read a book, and offered a great view of the bay, so I settled into a corner of the terrace, turned on my iPod, and lost myself in the adventures of Bilbo Baggins the hobbit, our timeless furry friend.

I came out of my revery a good while later, and something seemed very different. I switched off my music, and immediately heard a loud hum of racous voices and the clinking of countless pint glasses. Turning around I was more than a little surprised to see numerous groups of young people wearing an array of obscene t-shirts which wouldn't have been out of place inside the head-quarters of Club 18-30. I was apparently in the midst of the biggest 'Young Farmer's Reunion Weekend' in the country. More arrived every ten minutes, until I was surrounded by tribes of young farmers sporting the colours of their individual clans, who only had two things on their mind. Cider and sex.

I decided to make a move, and hoped to leave the boozing mobs to continue with their cider binge as far away from me as possible. Already they were at the buttock flashing, cleavage baring stages of their mating rituals with each other, and having no interest in joining the farmers' procreation displays I hoped to find a quiet fish and chip shop by the harbour front instead.

The fish and chip shop was perfectly located to watch the sun go down. Signs on the tables instructed, 'PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE SEAGULLS'. Suddenly I viewed the town through the eyes of Alfred Hitchcock and saw an ominous scene with the wings of destruction looming on the horizon. With appropriate dramatic timing, destruction did loom on the horizon a moment later in the form of a massive group of drunken teenage farmer's, testosterone fuelled and heading straight for the harbour front and all its culinary delights. Within minutes I had two inebriated lads with thick set necks and reeking breath standing uncomfortably close behind me in the queue.

"Heyyyyyy." One slurred to his mate. "Sheez nice." He patted me on the arm. I turned around and smiled with one eyebrow raised in a 'do you mind' kind of expression.
"Heyyyyy. Nice smile love. You should be an FHM Girl Next Door!" I turned back around to face front and tried to hold my nose against the cider fumes billowing over my shoulder.
"GIRL NEXT DOOR! GIRL NEXT DOOR! GIRL NEXT DOOR!" They turned it into a football chant, and continued with gusto in my right ear until I got my cod and chips and beat a hasty retreat. As I was leaving, a young man in a t-shirt featuring an image of a cockerel on the back and the words "Suck My..." on the front, bent over on the path and vomited, while his friends cheered and smacked him between the shoulder blades.

I walked briskly up the hill towards my hotel just as a police riot van roared past at high speed towards the town centre. Once inside I shut my door with relief, and as I sank into a chair, the leaflet on the side table made me smile.

'Discover Devon - unique, peaceful, gloriously beautiful, green and wild, rich in history and wildlife.'

Road Trip

I woke up yesterday morning with the distinct impression that a road trip was in order, and in fact, an expedition to Devon would fit the bill nicely, thank you very much. Having made an instantaneous decision, I went about my day humming a jaunty tune and smiling the smug smile of someone who knows that they are going on a spontaneous seaside adventure the following day.

I am staying in a quaint old-fashioned 'family' hotel, which is only marginally grander than a bed and breakfast. The netted windows and swirly whirly hard wear carpets are typical of this type of establishment, not to mention the wealth of tourism leaflets on display in the hallway, and the old fashioned brass bell on the front desk. Having rung this bell earlier, I know all too well what happens next. Due to the fact that this guest house is run single-handedly by a husband and wife team, there is precisely a fifty percent chance that you will come face to face with the lady of the house. She is a grey-haired, craggy-nosed no-nonsense type who read me my rights upon check-in while inspecting me from head to toe for suspicious signs that I may be hooligan, a prostitute or a crack head.

"Breakfast is served between the hours of eight and nine, sharp."

I hid my horror. Is this a hotel or a boot camp?

"Lovely. That sounds fine."

I managed to maintain a charming facade of wide-eyed innocence while surrepticiously hiding my bag of hard licquor behind my back. It clinked slightly and my grin widened.

The lounge had huge bay windows with layers upon layers of netted curtains, and stiff backed leather armchairs - an old-fashioned gentlemen's parlour which would have once been filled with the low murmur of voices, the haze of cigar smoke, and the crisp rustle of evening papers. There was a dusty-looking bar in one corner of the room, and I momentarily considered helping myself, but an image of the desk dragon loomed into my mind and I thought better of it.

I popped back downstairs earlier to see if anything was going on, but there wasn't any sign of life. Twas the night before thursday and all through the house, not a creature was stirring - not even a mouse.

Let us see what drama tomorrow brings.

Round 2 In The Psychic Cellar

Psychic awareness round two didn't exactly live up to last week's spine chilling run-in with the household trip switch. However I was still willing to give it another go. We were talking about aura's this time, and the ways in which you can project your own aura, or feel, or visualise the aura of another person. To my intellectual disappointment a large amount of time was spent at the beginning of session discussing last week's psychic vibrations (the buzzing lightbulb) and the spiritual visitation (the draught from the door). Then we coloured in a human outline on an A4 piece of paper with coloured crayons of our choice to represent the auric layers, where our own choice of colour was significant. I fought over the yellow crayon with the other girl, and I threatened to tell my mom on her when she wouldn't give me the pencil sharpener.

No trip switches tripped. No buzzing noises accompanied our scribblings. I shuffled and squirmed most of the evening on my chair in the corner, trying to hide my slight boredom. At one point I had to sit still with my eyes closed while one of the girls moved her hands around a few inches from my upper body. I had to use my awareness of energy to identify where I thought her hands might be.
"Err... are you somewhere,...er...around my shoulders or maybe head?"
Yes! I was right! Brilliant! I had it cracked.

I have to say that my spider senses were tingling that night. I felt really dizzy and increasingly so as the night progressed. It was almost as if everyone was trying to expand their energy so much in such a small space, that I felt overwhelmed by it. Or a sceptic might argue that I was sitting with my eyes closed for most of two hours on an empty stomach in a warm cellar. Either way I couldn't wait to make like a sheep and get the flock out of there. I am seriously considering whether to return next week.

Mystic Lisa

Inspiration to write can be found at home, as I discovered last night. My home town cannot offer stunning sunsets on paradise beaches, nor can it offer life-threatening escapades at sea, but the smaller, less visible moments are a whole new source of inspiration. Examples of the human condition, with all of the highs and lows, normalities and curios, can be found around me at every moment of the day, if I choose to notice such things.

My new program of activities, vaguely entitled, 'Things To Do, Try, & Experience' includes an exploration into the more spiritual side of life. Not to say that I haven't always been fascinated by alternative spirituality and the occult, but, haven't we all wondered about it at some time or another? Haven't you ever been given, or purchased a crystal, having no idea what it is for, except for a vague notion that it must be good for something? Haven't you ever been tempted to have your fortune read, or visit a clairvoyent? Haven't you ever watched 'Most Haunted' on TV, and wondered if the whole thing is not just a load of bollocks?

Having pondered about all of the above, I decided to do some active research. I visited a local man who professes to have a gift for all things psychic, (including divination, clairvoyency and reiki), and I spent a full day learning all about tarot cards and how to give readings. In fact I am no stranger to tarot, which captured my imagination a decade ago during those slightly turbulent teenage years, however, I felt like I wanted some serious one-on-one tuition from an expert. I was pleasantly surprised by the accuracy of the cards, and even more relieved when he told me to throw away the instruction manual, having shown me how to access my own intuition instead of the rigid set meanings found within a book.

Having successfully broken in to the world of divination, my next stop was an evening class in psychic development. Naturally I was curious in what could possibly be offered on such a course, but found myself even more intrigued by what kind of people the class may attract. There were three other subscribers, all younger than me, including a pretty blonde single mother, a hairdresser who dressed like a punk and her softly-spoken boyfriend, who had long hair and wore a black leather biker jacket. We spent the evening practicing meditation, which is one of those things that I have been meaning to do for years. It is said that meditating for thirty minutes every day can add years on your life. So far so good.

Then half way through the session, the young blonde says that she feels a presence with her. She can't concentrate on the meditation because the right side of her body has gone cold, and she is certain that someone (or something) is trying to communicate with her. Our teacher is sitting next to her, and he closes his eyes for a moment before agreeing that, yes, his left side has gone cold, and that there is probably a spirit in the room. I suggest that maybe she's feeling a draft from the door, which is located behind her. No. I am told, the heating is on high so there are no draughts here other than the ones created by visiting spirits. Ok. Great.

We move chairs to try to pick up on the energies of another person in the room. I take the chair recently vacated by the punk girl's boyfriend, and close my eyes as directed. All I feel is a slightly increased breathing and heart rate, and a warmth high in my cheeks. The teacher asks me if I can pick up anything about this boy's day from his energies. I want to say, "Have you had sex today?" But I don't. It is only my first week. I have another nine weeks to cause offence.

The punk girl is sitting in the teacher's chair. She begins to breathe erratically, and asks if we can hear a buzzing noise? I can hear the electric lights vibrating a little, and I suggest that this may be the source of the sound. No, she says. The teacher confirms that a buzzing sound is normal when spirits are trying to communicate. At this point, the girls seem to get very excited, chattering rapidly about "Oh, I never realised I could be so psychic," or, "If we can make this happen now, just think what we can do later in the course!" I remain silent and raise my eyebrows at the biker boyfriend.

At that precise moment, the light upstairs goes off. The teacher smiles and explains that the spirit has done this to get our attention. I suggest that maybe the shop assistant has just turned the light off. However, I am informed that the assistant is in another part of the house and nowhere near the area. More excited chatter about spirits and the 'otherside'.

As we finish the session, and I am putting on my jacket, the assistant comes to let us out the front door.
"Sorry about the light up here." He says. "I blew a fuse in the kitchen and didn't know where the trip switch was."

What do I think?
I am unconvinced that anything significant happened in that room that night. However, I am convinced that there are a lot of gullible, vulnerable people out there who are searching for something to believe in in this crazy world. People try so hard to fit in, but they also desperately need to feel special, unique, more gifted or more talented than the norm. They seek attention. They want others to believe in them. Mystic Lisa says, believe in yourself first, and the rest will come.

The Full Circle

In the words of one of my blog readers, I have indeed come full circle.

Let us return to San Diego and I shall fill in the missing link.

My time in San Diego was a full body emmersion back into the civilised, cosmopolitan world. I also feel it was a time of convalescence physically and mentally after an extraordinary experience on board Farfalla, the 40ft Catamaran that took us all the way from the south-eastern West Indies through the Panama Canal, and on to Mexico, dear sweet Mexico, the place that welcomed me with a warm glow and a soft embrace. I needed it. My natural sleep rhythms were destroyed. For weeks after I abandoned ship, I was unable to sleep longer than 3 hours, and was afflicted with night terrors and sleep-walking episodes. My wardrobe was also destroyed, if you can call it a wardrobe. My bag was home to 3 pairs of irrevocably dirty shorts, a couple of faded t-shirts, several shapeless bikinis and salt-eroded flip flops.

Naturally the first thing I did upon my arrival in California was borrow some suitable apparel from my friend and go SHOPPING!
I was astonished at the high levels of customer service in the retail industry in San Diego. Seriously put the UK to shame, in fact. These staff were people who considered their shop jobs to be professional careers, as opposed to a sulky 'fill-in' job til they find something better. Nothing was too much trouble. Without exception their knowledge of the products was utterly comprehensive, and they expressed genuine enthusiasm in me, the sparkly-eyed customer; in fact I was more like a child in a candy shop!

I made the decision to go home, to England.

My primary reason was the new found appreciation for my family and my friends. After the terrifying night at sea when I thought that it was all over, all I could think of was my family. I prayed to see them again, and for the first time I realised that, in fact, home IS where the heart is. Travelling is a double-edged sword; for every good person I met, for every 'hello', there was always the threat of imminent parting, of one more heart-breaking 'goodbye'. I was weary of my transient existence. I wanted to go home.

With regard to the scuba diving. I have decided to put it on hold. Maybe even a permanent or long-term hold. In truth it was a lonely job. The hours were long and so physically tiring that I had no stamina left at the end of the day to do anything but fall into an exhausted sleep. I was not being paid to do it, due to the owner's debts and cash flow problems. (Although he said that I would be paid in the near future) There was something really soul-destroying about working so hard and seeing nothing in return. My body could not take the physical strain combined with the high temperatures, (no air-con)sweaty humidity, plagues of biting insects and dirty water supply. I went to the island a healthy, happy, girl, and when I left I was mentally and physically drained, had been ill several times, I was slightly depressed, and covered from head to foot in severe insect bites and tropical skin allergies.

I had hoped to find my dream job and true love too! I found neither in fact, and the first did not facilitate the latter with its unsociable hours and infrequent time off. I think that everything would have been very different if I had taken a similar position with a boyfriend in tow. I would not have had to deal with the unwanted sexual attention, and would not have felt the loneliness that consumed me, in the end.

No woman is an island.

So, the pilgrim has returned to y olde England. I have a great story to tell, and my entire focus for now is the writing project that will transform this blog into a single work. I'm delirious, estatic. I walked in a light rain yesterday and felt the cool drops dance on my skin, and the breeze whisper through my hair. The sky was grey. A beautiful tone of silverly grey, and the birds in the hedgerows sang to me. I smiled and walked onwards.

The end?

Or the beginning?

Happy Birthday Blog!

It is exactly one year ago today that I created this blog!! Sitting in my apartment in England, I dreamed of traveling the world and having marvelous adventures. Now I return to England, having accomplished everything that I set out to do, and I couldn't be happier to go home!

The final moments...

I am free! Wonderfully, gloriously, amazingly free!

They always say that the last hundred metres are the worst for any athlete, who may have run an entire marathon, and can see the finishing line shining in the distance like a beacon of hope, yet still experiences the most agonising final moments before the race is truly over.

I felt like that runner last night during the last few turbulent hours on an unfriendly ocean. I began to personify the boat and the sea in my mind, and each time we rocked this way, or that, or I was pushed off balance by a rogue swell, I began to take it personally. Each impact was a personal affront, each cupboard that swung open was doing it just to spite me; sneering at me with each slam, and flinging wayward cooking utensils my way in mockery.

I stayed awake all night, waiting for the dawn; the final dawn.

The sun always rises, in the end. This you can be sure of at a time when nothing else is certain.

We are moored at another marina in Mexico, (Bahia De Navidad) and this is my last stop. I am enthusiastically abandoning ship in the next few hours, with every intention of heading straight for the nearest beach front hotel. The idea of sleeping in a large cool room tonight, on a big soft bed, for as many hours as I desire, is painting a huge smile across my face.

For now, I wrap myself in a warm blanket and welcome the dawn.

Acapulco!

This one is for you, Tim. One orange towel delivered to Acapulco, as promised! (Click on the photo to enlarge)

Sleeping In The Belly Of A Plastic Snake

My sleep is even more disturbed than ever before, if that's possible. During my nightly sleep ration in between watches, (which is never more than three and a half hours, and often a great deal less), I am assailed by prolific nightmares about storms and collisions, half-waking confusions and anxieties, and occasionally wonderful dreams of home (these I try to cling on to but slip away, intangible as cobwebs). The nightmares of capsizing are certainly inspired by my recent memories from the Gulf of Tehuantepec and the nightly reverberating echoes of waves, smashing, punching, sloshing and slapping against the paper thin hull within which I lie, restlessly. I refer to this place loosely as my 'cabin', although it is really a small arch-shaped cupboard which becomes increasingly thin and pointed as it recedes forward into the hull. From within, the walls remind me of the inside of those water slides you find in large leisure pools like the one in my home town, which boasts an unsightly and marginally unstable curly whirly water slide in hard-to-miss chicken yellow that pops out of the exterior wall of the leisure centre like the belly of a giant anaconda, trapped forever in an architectural nightmare of re-inforced plastic and brick. I have always had my doubts about the quality of this serpentine structure, particularly as it seems to be made of a material so thin as to allow natural light to glow eerily through. My cabin is constructed of the same weird plastic day glow stuff. I even tapped it with my knuckles to make sure that it wasn't made of papier-mache. It wasn't.

The mattress is woolly and hard. One of those hard-wearing types that appeals to large families with overactive young children or senior citizens. If this was not a boat, and therefore subject to occasional flooding, I would have expected to find a matching hard-wearing carpet in patterned oatmeal, which is proven to hide a multitude of sins (and bodily fluids). I remind myself that this catamaran is destined for years of chartering before it's private owners finally embrace it into the bosom of their family. Six more years of weekly charters to tourists of questionable hygiene and moral standards would explain the no frills, wipe clean decor that is the signature of this vessel.

When my sheet becomes un-tucked, as it does with regularity thanks to my unconscious thrashing and rolling in the face of vivid nightmares, I often wake with an itchy red chin and wool-burn on my inner forearms. I wake on average every ten or fifteen minutes. This means that I also fall back into an uneasy sleep with the same frequency, having:

a) ...worked out where the HELL I am, what the noises are, and why the room is moving,

b) ...experienced a momentary panic attack that it is my watch and as I am still in bed there is nobody driving the boat which may be on a collision course with a super tanker.

c) ...realised that no, it isn't my watch (yet).

d)...convinced myself, no, we are not in any danger (for all I know), and yes, I should try to get back to sleep (for all of ten minutes) before I really do have to wake up and drag myself wretchedly onto the deck for two hours of mind numbingly boring alertness, staring at nothing, doing nothing and getting all misty eyed as I dream about home comforts like watching Richard & Judy at 5pm on ITV with a lovely cup of English tea and a ham sandwich.

It's My Birthday and I'll Get Drunk If I Want To!

Oh I have just woken up with an enormous hangover which reminds me that we had a party last night on the boat and I got as drunk as possible to celebrate the passing of another year! I am 27 now. Wow. You know what that means? I'm nearly 28, which is nearly 29 which is most definitely nearly 30! Argh! Be still my beating heart!

Anyway, I am off to ... er ... drink birthday tea and call my parents!

The Most Scary Thing....Ever.

There have been reports of brave young soldiers crying for their mothers at a critical moment of battle when they realise that immortality is not theirs and every moment may be their last. While I can't profess to understand the terror of war, I have experienced a moment last night which was one of the most frightening experiences of my life, and one in which I was definitely wishing for my mother. Unfortunately, I must admit that I was curled up in a blanket like a baby, sobbing involuntarily every time a monster wave smashed over the boat in the midst of a text book Tehuantepec storm wind measuring 10 on the beaufort scale. I would love to say that I was a courageous sailor steering the boat in the face of howling winds and thunderous ocean onslaughts, but I wasn't. I was pathetic. I was useless. I was totally, utterly, shitting myself.

It appears that we strayed too far from the protection of the coast, and by the time the legendary Tehuantepec hit us, it was too late to find a safe haven. The first I knew of it was when I awoke at midnight with sudden and unexpected sea sickness. Dazed and confused I moved out of my small cabin inside the hull to discover that the boat had taken on a life of its own with violent churning momentum throwing me bodily against the sides of the short corridor, I moved upstairs to the central communal area where the the impact of hull on sea was less intense, and began my long vigil on on a seat which (unfortunately) had panoramic views of the raging ocean around us. The same duplicitous Jekyll and Hyde ocean that had changed personality in a scarily short time and was currently attempting to swallow us whole like a human apperitif.



I became locked in a state of fear, and clutching my blanket to my chin, I whimpered each time another wave exploded into the side of us. The power of the ocean has never held more awe or respect for me.

Finally, blissfully, the dawn came, and I fell into a restless sleep filled with nightmares of yawning ocean mouths and creatures from the deep. The Tehuantepec was still upon us, but its fervour had lessened slightly, and the light banished away the fear of the unknown. Sure, we were still taking huge waves, but at least you can see them coming in the daylight and can find a suitable crash position.

I slept most of the day sleeping (ignorance is bliss) while we rid ourselves of the tail end of the storm, and now I am only too overjoyed to tell you that we are safely moored inside Huatulco Marina, Mexico.

My wine tastes sweet. Hell, my life tastes sweet. Here's to you Tehuantepec, and the hope that we won't be meeting again anytime soon. Cheers.

Tehuantepec Terror!

We're headed straight for the belly of the beast: the name that strikes fear into the heart of even the most experienced mariners, and the most dangerous part of our journey so far - The Tehuantepec Gulf.

This area off the coast of southern Mexico is capable of devastating wind speeds and unpredictable ocean currents. Most sailors prefer to avoid the area entirely by re-routing 500 miles off-course via Hawaii, however we have neither the time nor the resources to make such a massive diversion. Instead we have waited till this morning for a favourable weather forecast before setting sail with full engine power and all of our fingers crossed for the best.

If you're reading this now it means that we have made it through to the other side!

Sea Sickness of the Heart

After over 30 days at sea, and more than another 10 to go, I have come to a profound understanding of the term, "sea sick." I always believed that this was a concept reserved exclusively for those poor individuals who find themselves involuntarily vomiting overboard at the first hint of motion in the ocean (or that sensation I have come to fondly describe as 'the washing machine' effect).

However it has come to mean something a little different for me. I never thought I could be bored by the vision of celestial dawn light exploding over the horizon, or the delightful frolicking of curious dolphins playing around the hull. I never believed that the sight of the endless rolling ocean could fail to inspire me, or that the long days filled with nothing to do but sleep and read books could be anything other than sheer pleasure. I imagined tanning myself on the deck and re-creating that old advert for Piz Buin sun cream, where they have a perfectly tanned skinny model lying on the deck of a white catamaran in rapturous relaxation surrounded by gorgeous blue water. Unfortunately I am neither deeply tanned nor skinny. It's too hot to lie outside under the equator sun, and there's literally no where to go and nothing to do for exercise so I have become soft and flabby, not to mention weak as a kitten. I have never been around so much beautiful water for so long that I have been unable to swim or dive in, it's like dangling a carrot under my nose, really, it is.

Yes, I am sick of the sea.

I am so bored of staring into space, and, or, reading a book that I could chew my own fist for the want of something else to do. I miss my other hobbies, such as swimming and diving, fiddling around with computer editing programs, and playing fantasy video games. I miss the perks of civilisation such as being able to pop to the shops, catch a movie or go out for a meal with friends. I miss cosy nights at the pub and leaving late into cold fresh air that turns my breath to steam as I wrap my woolly scarf tighter around my neck. I miss my parents and our tradition of watching rubbish Saturday night TV programs with a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea (proper British teabags with real milk, not some foreign affair that tastes of stewed tree bark). I have forgotten what it feels like to sleep longer than four hours in a bed that doesn't move, and in a room with windows that you can leave wide open all night. Ah blessed fresh air that won't give me heat rash and induce me to pour with perspiration every moment of every day. Did I mention baths? I can't tell you how long it has been since I had a bath. Oh, a lovely bath with bubbles and candles and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon would go down a treat right now, believe me.

So it appears I have reached a conclusion for now. It's almost time to go home... I think. Hmmm... at least for an extended visit...later this month ;)

Guatemala mountain trip

During a brief stop over in Guatemala we befriended a lovely local man who was only too happy to show us around his home town and nearby mountain city of Antigua. During the 2 hour journey the road wound up higher and higher, gaining altitude that caused a sharp drop in temperature which came as a surprise after the heady humid air at sea level. He pointed out a red flower that grew along the roadside which has sedative properties as a juvenile and is a deadly poison in full growth with no known antidote. We saw several family groups walking up the road carrying impossibly huge bundles of firewood on their backs which were apparently so heavy that each person was bent over double with the effort. Even the youngest child, who could have been no older than six years old was carrying a bundle of wood that was almost the same size as her. They were dressed in bright traditional local clothing which is essentially Mayan, and hand-woven with blinding speed and skill by women using an ancient method that involves a wooden frame, a body harness and a conveniently located tree trunk or post. As I am lacking any photos of this process I'll leave the visual images to your imagination.

Antigua appeared, finally, after a bend in the road and lay sprawling in the valley between the mountain ranges at approximately 1700 metres above sea level. It really is a gorgeous city, with a rich history and superb architecture. The central plaza has a beautiful garden at its heart, and is surrounded on four sides by cobbled streets, elegant balconies and a church.

Antigua appears to be a hotspot for back-packers and independent travelers. The streets are filled with young skinny 20-somethings wearing beads and bandanas, intermingled with smarter, older visitors who relax on park benches and wander around the stunning church interiors in revered silence. This city has "The Lonely Planet Guide To Central America" stamped all over it; the hotels are intimate and stylish, the bars are surprisingly cosmopolitan and cool, internet cafes are abundant, and the street vendors are as tenacious as they get. All of these developments have not had a detrimental effect on Antigua...yet. It is full of romantic charm and old-world beauty, and definitely on my list of places to return to one day if the backpackers don't get it first!

What Do You Do With The Drunken Sailors?

After a lengthy visit from customs and immigrations officials, all of seven of them, (I was surprised they didn't also bring their children and pet dog), we were finally clear to set foot on Costa Rican soil. We waved goodbye to all the staring Costa Rican pen-pushers and I pretended not to notice that one guy was surreptitiously taking photos of me on his phone, which was angled suspiciously low to be a mug shot. I raised a dubious eyebrow as if to say, "What? Never seen a girl in a bikini top before?" However I maintained a sunny facade. This was neither the time nor the place to upset foreign government officials over matters of female exploitation. Particularly the kind that are keeping your passport overnight.

We ventured out into the marina, and were impressed by the selection of disgustingly lavish fishing power boats, almost entirely American-owned. At sunset the owners could be found for the most part drinking cold beers in the nearby bars. They were an easy species to spot. Ruddy mahogany tans offset by greying or bleach blonde hair, some carefully groomed beer bellies, and a propensity to wink and postulate at passing females while congratulating each other loudly on the size of their engines, catch, stock investments, or all of the above.

We stumbled across a launch party for a fishing tournament, and crashed it as we heard that the alcohol was complimentary. We wasted no time at all getting stuck into the free bar, occasionally nodding sagely at other party goers who were discussing the odds for tomorrow's competition. I made particularly tiltillating conversation with one American man with a tan to rival David Hasselhoff's.

Him: "Are you following the tournament?"
Me: "Oh, yes, I love fish. I had a big one yesterday actually."
Him: "What was the size?"
(I gesture approximately 20 cm)
Me: "Delicious with chips and tartar sauce."



We continued to mercilously guzzle the free booze and found ourselves filled with the spirit of adventure, exploration, and well...er....vodka. This inevitably was destined to lead us down a dark and slippery path, in this case a bar called Beatle Bar which an American captain reliably informed me was the the local hotspot to find your friendly neighbourhood prostitute. It did not disappoint. Ladies of the night stood around the sides of the room in a very non-wall flower kind of way, against a backdrop of American road-house decor and framed rock trivia.
This place was hot and busy, and we decided to move on fairly rapidly to another bar more suited to our tastes and entertainment requirements. Monkey Bar, while it failed to deliver any genuine monkeys, it did offer some excellent music and a stylish cool interior. Feeling re-energised we set about our drinking mission with gusto, and were delighted to discover a table football game in the back. I ordered some tequila slammers to celebrate and we had a dramatic and highly skilled tournament with a local costa rican guy. My tactics came from years of training and mostly involved spinning all the handles round as fast as possible while jumping up and down on the spot and squealing like a pig. Naturally, with my talent we couldn't fail to lose and we celebrated our success with some vodka tonics.

The rest of the night is a little blurry, however I definitely remember enjoying some delicious BBQ chicken on a stick before our taxi back to the marina. In fact I may have eaten several. Later, singing, giggling, and the sweet oblivion of a drunken sleep.

Costa Rica

We have arrived in Costa Rica. Strange to think that already we are in another country. As we were delayed by a lack of wind we approached the marina in darkness and were not able to gain access to land yet, so we are anchored in the centre of the bay content for now to stare at the lights that sweep around us in an arc, tempting and inviting, but for now out of bounds. We considered the calm dark waters for while, deciding whether swimming to shore may be an option, however we reminded ourselves that we are in the Pacific, and these tranquil waters may be hiding a rather undesirable welcome committee; sharks, sea snakes and crocodiles are apparently not uncommon here.

Tomorrow we will go ashore and we will have an opportunity to explore. For now I keep company with my vivid imagination and a glass of Baileys on ice.

After travelling for so long alone I am finding it difficult sometimes to remember that my decisions are not entirely my own to make. So used am I to acting impulsively, selfishly even, that planning my schedule around the other crew or the captain is taking a little getting used to. I occasionally miss the freedom of being able to make entirely my own choices, however I am also enjoying the pleasure of meaningful friendship and companionship. In any case, only a short time remains of this journey and then I will be on my own again, good or bad, come what may. I only wish I knew what my next step is going to be.

(Either way I have made a promise to myself that I will be in Mexico by my birthday, February 1st, slamming tequilas wearing only a sombrero, a g-string, and a smile.) (For future photos please check the website...;)

The Music Of The Night

Music catapults me spiritually, emotionally, almost physically into the past. The power of music is thousand times more intense here at sea, when there is nothing in the stillness of the night save the infinite heavens above and utter darkness all around, embracing us within a pitch black void.

It is 4am and the deepest part of the night. I watch the ocean from the cockpit, scanning the impenetrable horizon for signs of movement or light. Earlier I found some old mini-discs and began to listen to songs that I have not played for several years, some as long as a decade. The flashbacks begin immediately and I am swept back into a sea of memories. There is nothing else to stimulate my mind at this moment, so I lose myself in my reminiscing. Faces appear before me, old loves long gone, (some best forgotten!) and old friends from around the world who are still dearly missed. You all know who you are. My love goes out to you tonight!

Backlog of Stories From Sea

Here´s a few journal entries I wrote at sea during our journey from Canouan Island to Panama!

26.12.06

I´ve been waiting to sail away into a sunset my whole life and finally, I´ve actually done just that.















¨Ciao Canouan¨ we shouted at the rapidly disappearing land mass, and turned west to stare at the infinite open ocean. I swallow it all up like a whale. I am hungry for adventure on the high seas. Captain Laurent has assured me that I will be a proper sailor in a couple of weeks, and I am determined to meet every challenge head on. Is there any other way to live?

Tonight I will experience my first watch shift. Each is 2 hours long, which gives you 4 hours sleep at a time if there are 3 members of crew. As we are six people at the moment we will only need to do 1 or 2 shifts a night, however tonight we are watching in pairs for training purposes. Laurent will be taking the watches with me.

==============================================================================

27.12.06

We took the last watch at 6am, but I was so tired, almost sick with fatigue, that I could barely appreciate my first sunrise at sea. Soon after the orange sun rose over the horizon a small squall possed on our port side and we were caught in an impromptu rain shower lasting only 3 or 4 minutes. I took the opportunity to take a ´natural´shower and stripped off quickly to make the most of the fresh water from the heavens! Our onboard fresh water is limited to necessities only (this does not include washing) so I am already a salty sailor girl!

After a much needed short nap I woke at 11am and was stunned by the blinding sun in a dazzling clear blue sky. Unfortunately not much wind so progress was going to be a lazy leisurely affair today. I joined the girls, Isabelle and Albane on the trampoline at the bow of the catamaran and settled down to some serious tanning action accompanied by a good book. Ah. Sailing is so hard!

I don´t think I have found my sea legs yet. I am stumbling around like a drunken penguin.

28.12.06

My watches last night were at 10-12pm and 6-8am. The sunrise this morning was beautiful. I was still a zombie but even my dopey eyes popped open wide in wonder at the golden explosion on the horizon.

I have no idea what I did with the rest of this day. Laurent sent me running around the boat to give him readings and information that he didn´t even want, because he thinks I need more ´sport´ to keep from becoming fat and slow like a sea slug. (Exercise is hard when you have no balance and no space to make any wrong moves!) No, actually, he was training me how to become familiar with the gagdets and gizmos onboard.

I cooked chicken pasta with tomato and cream sauce for dinner. It was fab.

Laurent and I had first watch at 8pm. However he fell asleep inside his cabin and I didn´t have the heart to wake him up so I was a brave sailor and went about my duty all alone in the dark night!!

(Later, however, I slept in for well over half of our watch at 4am, so as far as I´m concerned, we´re even now!)

======================================================================

29.12.06

We caught a big fish today. Looked a bit like a barracuda. Fish for dinner then. It really was an education. My first ever fish murder. We dragged it out of the sea, all writhing and twisting, whacked it onto a cutting board and swiftly decapitated it with my big shiny new knife. Thick arterial blood pumped out all over the board and the deck around, and the poor bastard was still wiggling when Laurent sliced it open from gills to tail. Naturally, more bloood splattered everywhere and we chucked the fish head back into the ocean. I´m sure it gave me a reproachful look on the way back in.

Panama: The Civilised Side

We are happily moored in a lovely marina, having successfully travelled through the famous Panama Canal from the dirty and dangerous city of Colon, which is the Caribbean side, all the way through to the shining waters of the Pacific Ocean and Panama City.

Colon was right out of an old latino gangster movie. Dusty, decrepid streets somehow clinging onto a memory of their past glamour like an old photo. Looking up at the faded balconies that overhang each street I could imagine a time when their facades were bright and proudly filled with rambling hanging flowers and exotic pot palms, where people would sit for an apperitif and watch the world go by. I enjoyed wandering around for 15 minutes, but I was highly aware of my alien status and the dire warnings not to walk alone on any quiet street, or dress expensively lest you be attacked in broad daylight!

So, the canal crossing... what an experience. I wondered at times if I was dreaming as I pulled on ropes with all my strength to hold the boat stable in the powerful current generated by the lock system. We were tiny in comparison to some of vessels that crossed with us, and the object of attention from two day cruise boats packed full of American tourists which were nested alongside us. I felt like a celebrity with all these people waving and shouting and snapping photos! Ha! When we finally passed through the final lock, and I saw the Pacific for the first time, I was so excited! Wow, what an achievement!































We´re staying in this marina for a couple of days to chill out and prepare the boat for the coming journey to Costa Rica and Mexico. I think I will walk along the promenade now, and watch the sun set with a nice cold beer! Cheers!

Lisa The Sailor

We have arrived safely in Panama! Hooray!
This has been the most unusual experience of my life so far....if that´s possible!!
I have thrown myself into the sailor life, bravely taking my watches at night, and steering manually through days and nights of 40 knots wind with waves as high as 7 metres! This is completely awesome. I have made some great friendships already with the captain and crew, and this journey is only half over! Plus, I have experienced no signs of any sea sickness, which as you can imagine is a massive bonus!!

We have to go now to sort out our immigration papers with the harbour master, but as we are spending 2 days here before travelling down the Panama Canal, I will have another opportunity to write an update with some photos I hope!

Happy New Year to everyone!!!!

OK.....here are some photos!