Second Star To The Right & Straight On Til Morning

New Blog!

2010-11-15T14:19:00.000-08:00

Check out my new parenting blog HERE :)

Changes...

2010-09-29T16:48:00.000-07:00

In March of this year I was settled back in the UK, in a retail job with a major computing and technology corporation. Not only had I come to terms with the non-tropical humdrum existence of life back home in England, but I had been involved in a romantic liaison with a work colleague for several weeks.
Towards the end of March I felt a bit peculiar - even by my standards. And so one morning I found myself perched on the edge of a toilet seat clutching a urine-soaked plastic stick in white knuckles, trembling like a leaf in the wind. It became hard to focus through tear-glazed eyes, but I was unable to look away, unable to blink, utterly transfixed by the double pink lines that glowed out from the sodden litmus paper.

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I knew what that code meant, I had checked and rechecked the leaflet ten times already. Two lines = POSITIVE

POSITIVEPOSITIVEPOSITIVEPOSITIVEPOSITIVEOHSHITOHFUCKPOSITIVEPOSITIVEPOSITIVEHOLYCRAPOHGODPOSITIVEPOSITIVEPOSITIVE... The word cycled endlessly in my head. Time stopped. My world spun. I'm pregnant, I'm knocked up, I'm having a baby, I'm well and truly up the bloody duff.

This sort of thing doesn't happen to me, I thought. It has never happened to me! I chase sharks, wrestle stingrays, run away to sea with French men, make solo expeditions to remote corners of the globe...but this? Having babies is not an adventure I'm qualified for! Marriage, mortgages, children, that's what other people do!

In the six months since then I have watched the seasons change, and with them, my body too. As I write this I'm balancing my laptop on my baby bump, which is already huge and round, swollen with the life growing within. The keyboard twitches and wobbles with every kick and sometimes I stop to stroke my belly and smile.

The relationship with the baby's father was brief and ended soon after it begun, back in spring, but he is still around and we continue to share a commitment to being the best parents possible when the time comes. Modern co-parenting is so 2011!

So now this old travel blog of mine is destined to take a different turn, a new route that will be the biggest adventure yet. What happens when this free spirited ex traveller takes on the most important job of all?

TInkerbell, pack away your fairy wings, it's time to be a mummy!

(Due date: Dec 15 2010)

Let's Hear It For The Sun

2009-04-23T10:19:00.000-07:00

One day, about 6 months ago, I was driving up the coast road that runs parallel to Seven Mile Beach, and the sun was setting behind the ocean in a huge explosion of pink and coral and amber light. I was listening to Johnny Nash on the stereo in my newly purchased car, and everything about the moment was quite suddenly overpoweringly blissful. So I shrieked, out loud; I cheered, quite vocally and finished with a heartfelt Whooooooop! of sheer joy. A couple of tourists shared my release of emotion, as they were walking quite close by along the roadside and my windows were wide open. I may have startled them a little, but I think they enjoyed it too.

I remember thinking, Wow, I live here? This island of white sand and palms, where the sun rises and sets each day like a golden God, over waters so dazzling that they seem painted on. I live here!

Of course I have driven that same road at sunset many, many times since then, but I have not screamed with bliss again, the way I did that first time. Is that what happens? Can we only experience the deepest intensity of feeling the very first time, and each subsequent time, it is a more diluted experience?

I vow to cheer at The Sun, the very next time I see him.

Suspended over The Abyss

2009-02-15T18:43:00.000-08:00

Thirty-four hours ago I was enacting a dream. The repetitive dream that visits me with such frequency is one of floating underwater, suspended in the deep blue, which stretches to infinity on every side.

On Saturday morning, February 14th, Valentines Day, I spent time with my love. The object of my desire - the focus of my passion, my imagination, and my adrenaline fuelled dreams. Diving. To be specific, diving the Great Wall off the shores of Little Cayman, where a shallow reef ends abruptly, dropping vertically into a deep ocean trench of more than 6000 feet. Visibility is seemingly infinite in this protected marine environment. At 80ft down, I could still see the sunlight sparkling on the surface far above.

The underwater world wrapped me in it's cool embrace as I floated out over the abyss. I had swam out into the open ocean about 50 yards, leaving the security of the reef wall in order to view the entire scene from further back. It was majestic. The other divers were tiny against the backdrop of coral heads, sea fans, and shadowy crevices. Below, there was nothing but the yawning deep. Behind, the open ocean - wild, deep waters stretching 150 miles to Cuba.

My imagination was running wild. The last time I dived a wall of this magnitude and water clarity, was the drop off in Sipadan, Malaysia - the same unforgettable occasion that a school of several hundred hammerheads passed overhead. Today, there were no hammerheads. Just the abyss and I. I floated, frozen in time. Meditative. This is my life, I thought. I smiled behind my regulator. Yes, this is my life, and what a life it is!

2009-02-05T17:36:00.000-08:00

Click here to read the article I wrote about my night at Canama Bay - where the opening of the Grand Cayman Film Commission saw the red carpets graced by a few celebs straight off the boat from Hollywood! I went along as a photographer with work and ended up interviewing Jennifer Coolidge, and a number of other stars and dignitaries! I really am a jammy wotsit, aren't I. :)

A time for work...

2009-02-02T15:24:00.000-08:00

There is a time for all things, a time to work, a time to cry, a time to sleep, ...did I mention a time to work already? For those of you who suspected that I live the life of an international playgirl over here in the Caymans, you couldn't have been more mistaken. The last 4 months has been my time to work; work so hard that I finish my 12 hour day (spent between ocean, boat, road, and office) and look forward to nothing more than the sweet oblivion of sleep at the end of it.

That kind of punishing schedule was certainly character building but it also had the unfortunate side-effect of drying up my creative impulses, like a drought-blasted river bed. Thus the blog came to a grinding halt. The stories were there, just inside my head, but my fingers were not willing.

It is with profound relief that I can say I have survived 4 months, and look forward to an altered schedule from now on. After a dramatic new year's resolution, consisting of the two magic words "I quit", my employer renegotiated my contract to a more part-time arrangement, which, blessedly involves weekends off and less physical labour! Yes!

Today was the first day of my 'freedom schedule' and I have relished every moment.

Now, on the first day of my 29th year, I will attempt to fill you in on the last 4 months in the Cayman Islands.

Another journey begins in the midst of airport hell

2008-10-13T19:33:00.001-07:00

Oh my god! I have been so so busy since starting this new job in Grand Cayman, that I have not even had time to spend at leisure on my dear blog! What's happening to me?! Am I finally appreciating the exhaustive quality of a hard day's grind?! Anyway ... here's something I wrote in the airport during my trip here, and the rest - well, you'll just have to bear with me I'm afraid, I'm not used to a full days work in the sun; it's killing me! (not complaining though *wink*)

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Another month, another airport...

I hate airports, don’t you? They reinforce the Great British tradition of queuing. People become ants, in serpentine and sluggish lines, stretching out into the distance. Somewhere out there is the check-in desk; the front of the line; the holy grail of Gatwick.

Finally I see the end; I’m almost there – it’s reaching distance.
“You’re in the wrong queue, your bags haven’t been pre-weighed,” says a smug agent with a mouth like a prune, “go to that queue first,” she points, “and then you may join this one again.” My heart sinks, and I turn to stare at the daunting prospect snaking out behind me.
I check my watch. “Will I have time to queue there, then return here, then queue for passport control? My flight is in 2 hours.”
Prune-mouth sighs, “Go to the other queue, I can’t help you here until your bags are approved.” Which roughly translates as ‘I’m not interested and I don’t care. Now piss off and let me get on with my crap job - which by-the-way I hate’
By now she has already dismissed me, and turns to give her welcoming scowl to the next group of passengers.

Thirty minutes later I smile desperately at the official who calls me over. He stands next to an ominous looking weighing scale and a hand-baggage sizing test. Oh shit, I think. I have 2 pieces of hand luggage, 1 extra bag of dive gear and 2 suitcases, which are slightly overweight. My heart is pounding in my ears. The man surveys my trolley. Before he has a chance to make a negative judgement, I stammer, quickly, “Err, hi! I’m traveling to the Cayman Islands today – to live, not for a holiday, a job – you see – I’m alone, and,” I gesticulate wildly towards my dive gear, “I’m an instructor – a diving instructor, but my job, actually, err…” I pat my camera bag, “ it’s photography, underwater…” I give him my best cheshire cat grin and pray.

He smiles. “Alright for some, isn’t it!” Oh sweet relief. “Let’s get these cases weighed. If you’d just like to pop open your dive bag for me so I can check it’s all sports equipment we’ll be able to let you take that for free.”
I find out that his name is Daniel and thank him profusely when he lets me off a charge for my slightly overweight cases too. “You’re my airport guardian angel,” I say, wondering if it would be too weird to hug him. He blushes and looks pleased.

Later, when I finally get near prune-mouth again, I see Daniel approaching. He winks at me, and I see him whispering while pointing towards me. I catch a couple of words here and there, “ …moving….dive instructor…no charge…” The woman sees me and gives a curt nod to Daniel. As he walks off, he looks back, so I wave and blow a kiss.

I feel slightly smug - all this chaos around and yet my journey seems to be going so smoothly...

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I did not feel quite so smooth 9 hours and 45 minutes later, after a 6 hour delay and a stressful boarding experience onto a full plane bound (finally) for Kinston, Jamaica. I was sitting way in the back, surrounded by noisy Jamaicans on every side; the air conditioning seemed to be broken, the shrieking and the gabbling of voices had reached fever point, and the last time I ate or slept seemed so, so long ago. Well - next thing I know, my head feels prickly and everything seems very hot and bright suddenly. There's a pressure in my chest like something verging on panic or perhaps it's simply pure-body-shutdown and I can no longer feel my hands. I think - Oh no. Oh no. This is wrong - and I fear that, suddenly I will flap or scream or vomit or faint, or all of the above. I stand up to go to the bathroom, just 3 or 4 rows behind (yes I really am at the back of the plane), and then everything goes dark. The last thing I see is the bathroom door like a tiny pin prick of light at the end of a long tunnel.

I come around to noise, before my sight returns. I hear loud voices and they seem close - all arguing and jabbering. "...she fainted..." "...yeh she stands up and she fell..." "...she say some ting but I canna hear man.."
I drift. I feel sick, and the back of my neck feels like its on fire. I think "please don't throw up Lisa, please don't embarrass yourself....hold on to it, come on..." Someone touches me and tries to make me talk. I wave them away, weakly, like a bug. Don't they understand? I just need to be left, alone, please, so I can breathe, so I can try not to throw up...I try to talk, but I can't.

Soon I hear an English voice, a woman, and I feel a cool hand on my face. She is telling the people to sit down, to give me space. I want to agree with her but I still feel too sick to speak. I open my eyes finally, and there she is - a young blonde flight attendant, smiling gently as I try to focus.

"Don't worry," she says, "we're getting you some oxygen, that will make you feel better." I try to smile, but I think its more of a grimace.

The oxygen comes and I breath the dry cold air. My head begins to clear like a frosty morning, and I get pins and needles fizzing in my hands and feet.

"Her colour is coming back," says a man's voice.
"Yes, let's get her towards the front of the plane though - it's cooler there." says another woman.

I feel relief - the idea of a cool dark place to stretch out right now is like heaven.
Stumbling slightly, I shuffle through ecomony and enter premium economy. I expect to stop here, but they keep on going, and suddenly I find myself in a cool dimly-lit space that I recognise as business or first class.

I stifle a giggle, which is sucked away into the oxygen mask. I look on the bright side as I make myself comfortable on my fully reclinable seat. Another trans-atlantic flight - another free upgrade.

Back of the net.

If Luck be a lady...

2008-07-15T17:48:00.000-07:00

They say that you can think yourself lucky.
I’m beginning to think that they are right.
I have been glowing like a ray of sunshine for days now; positively beaming at everyone and everything around me, and blessings are falling into my lap, fluttering into my life like moths to a flame.

As I compose this I am sitting at leisure in the first class gold card members’ lounge of British Airways at Seattle International airport. However this was by no means the first stroke of good fortune to hit me in the last 24 hours. My hotel last night moved me unexpectedly into a deluxe room with whirlpool spa, and Dominoes Pizza delivered a delicious Hawaiian thin crust straight to my room even though I was a few minutes late to order over the telephone. You can imagine I was feeling pretty smug as I lay back in the tub eating pizza, neck deep in swirling bubbles, watching Sex & The City on my widescreen TV.

The following morning I made an enquiry about late check out, and to my surprise they allowed me to keep the room another 3 hours, no extra charge. Cue more spa time!

Reception were kind enough to give me a free ride to the airport, and after a short queue a very pleasant British Airways check-in representative engaged me in friendly conversation, in which I wittily summarised my USA adventure and made a joke about inflatable neck pillows.
“OK Miss Evans. Here is your boarding pass.” He paused and looked around surreptitiously before continuing in a low whisper, “You’re in Club Class.” I leaned closer.
“I am?”
He winked. “You are now.”
I grinned in delight, and felt like jumping up and down on the spot, but somehow contained myself. “I see. Well, thank you very much!”
He smiled, “Enjoy your flight Miss Evans.”

I decided to push it further and go for the grand finish. I ascended the thickly-carpeted staircase to BA First and Club World lounge, specifically reserved for cardholders. At the reception I put on my best posh accent and feigned ignorance about the cardholder requirement, while showing my boarding pass. I gestured towards my laptop case and explained how much important work I had to do and how WIFI access was an absolute necessity. She stared at me a moment, and I could sense her mind ticking over.

“We wouldn’t normally allow admission to the lounge to non card-holders,” She looked around and lowered her voice, “but I think we can accommodate you on this occasion.”
I smiled and thanked her profusely before slipping into the cool air-conditioned interior.

If luck be a lady tonight her name is Lisa Evans.

Independence Day

2008-07-08T19:41:00.000-07:00

On the fourth of July I celebrated my own independence, my own freedom, overlooking the shimmering banks of the Chena River, caught in an endless summer sunset. I was back where I begun two months ago. I watched the rays of light dance across the surface of the water, a golden path broken only by the wake of occasional passing boats.

I went to Hawaii driven by gut instinct – the same certainty that drove me to Thailand on that other trip of self-discovery that ended so happily, too. I reasoned that, without this Alaskan trip, for all its ups and downs, I would never have been inspired on that spontaneous day to apply for the Cayman Islands job – which waits just beyond the next horizon for my arrival in Autumn.

I went to Alaska in search of something specific: one adventure, one relationship, but instead I experienced many adventures and had the privilege of sharing these moments with a host of new friends.

I looked over at the glowing water, framed against a backdrop of silhouetted spruce trees, and took a moment to consider the journey now behind me – what it all meant, what it had all been for – then I smiled as I thought of what lies ahead. There will be more of these moments, when I will bask, eyes closed, in the warmth of other sunsets, across time and space. I wonder where I will be, who I will be with, and how I will feel.

One thing I am certain of: this life is a gift.

More shark encounters...

2008-07-08T19:10:00.000-07:00

Hawaiian Escape

2008-07-08T18:44:00.000-07:00

Hawaii, oh Hawaii, where do I begin to describe you. Lush valleys, towering volcanic craters which descend into baking hot canyons that extend their rocky roots towards ivory sand beaches, and finally, the cerulean blue ocean which laps and pounds and crashes against the land.

Oahu: island of beach and jungle; mountain and city; surfer’s paradise and cosmopolitan dream. At night, burning tikki torches light the path along Waikiki Beach Avenue, illuminating designer boutiques and street sellers touting spray paint canvases and beaded jewellery. The delicate fragrance of fresh cut flowers fills the air as an old Hawaiian lady walks past, arms festooned with freshly made leis of yellow ilimas, hibiscus and lehua blossoms.

Hawaii was my Bali Ha’i. It called to me during those dismal days in Alaska, when I felt entrapped by the four walls of a tiny cabin without plumbing or television. I felt imprisoned not just by the town of Fairbanks, (which offered so little in terms of modern society’s culture and entertainment) but also trapped and frustrated by the absolute failure of the relationship that had been my initial reason for going. He and I were so utterly different in almost everyway that sharing a small living space 24/7 was like a slow torture, and it was not long before the free spirit in me began to claw at the walls, overwhelmed by cabin fever; Fairbanks fever; Alaska fever!

It came to me one night, from across the wind of the sea, “Here am I, your special island! Come to me, come to me!”

And so I went, leaving Alaska without even a backward glance.

The hazy days in Hawaii were a blend of adventure, friendship, thrills and laughter. I swam with sharks, hiked a volcanic crater, went horseback riding through filming locations used in Jurassic Park, basked on golden sands, and partied with new friends into the early hours of the morning. Honolulu was a vibrant buzzing destination set against breath-taking scenery, but it was the people who really put a song back into my heart and a smile back onto my face. Rarely have I have the pleasure to meet so many gorgeous thrilling fascinating people in the space of 10 days.

Mahalo!

New York New York

2008-06-24T21:51:00.000-07:00

A night out in the ultra-trendy Meatpacking district

Ground Zero - the place where the twin towers used to stand; now a huge construction area

I take a ferry to see the lady of liberty up close

I make a slithery new friend

View of Manhattan skyline from the ferry

I climb on to the roof in search of fresh air and relief from the heatwave

Lisa and the City

2008-06-24T21:46:00.000-07:00

The pavements of New York shimmered in the heat threatening to melt beneath my feet into rivers of molten tar. Stepping outside the dim entrance hall of the apartment building had been like walking into a solid wall of hot air that left me breathless and gasping. My timing, as ever, was perfect. I had chosen to spend a week in New York City, and this first record-breaking heat-wave of the year began on the eve of my arrival and ended on the afternoon of my departure.

I was simply not prepared. I looked with some disappointment at the immense suitcase I had dragged here, full of jeans, jackets, jumpers and shoes – oh the shoes: four pairs of boots, four pairs of heels, flats and a couple of pairs of trainers. This would never do, I decided, and braved the heat of the afternoon to go shopping for a more appropriate wardrobe.

I may have been in an unfamiliar city, but I possess an innate feminine ability to sniff out fashion stores from miles away like a shark tracking blood in the ocean. Madison Avenue finally appeared, like an oasis in the desert, stretching out into the distance with the promise of seduction at every gleaming window. I smiled like the cat who got the cream, and felt my credit cards cringing in anticipation of what was to come.

Two hours, three dresses, two skirts, one bracelet, one jacket, four tops and three pairs of sandals later I hailed a cab (with the confidence of a NYC big spender) and headed to a air-conditioned bar for a well-deserved G&T on ice. Would have been rude not to.

My weekend as an Alaskan band roadie

2008-06-01T23:02:00.000-07:00

As you may have already gathered, Alaska is mostly made of whopping great mountain ranges surrounded by undiscovered tundra and unpopulated wilderness. It's huge. Plus, extreme climate and challenging living conditions make this one of the last great frontiers of the civilised world and therefore the most sparsely populated state in America. Statistically there's 1 person for every square mile.

I decided to find out what these folks do for fun, and one phonecall and 24 hours later we were headed south to Denali National Park, (home to Mt Mckinley) with a whole load of band gear in the back of the truck. Yeah, I was going to be a band roadie for the first time in my life! I have previously tried the dubious career path of DJ groupie, so this was obviously my next step, and what better band to follow than the Alaskan favourite, The Gangly Moose.

When we arrived at our first destination on Friday night, The Salmon Bake, a topsy turvy restaurant bar located at the entrance to Denali park, I helped carry some equipment inside and swaggered around a little, sporting my new fur hat. I drank a few yagermeister bombs in the bar, and later made my way to the room where the band was playing. At some point it occured to me that I was so drunk that the bar was beginning to tilt crazily. Yes, in fact, the more I peered into the shadows and flashing lights, noting the angle of the floor and the walls, the more convinced I became that I needed to go and lie down, right now.

I hissed to my friend, "I'm drunk, this whole place is tilting! Please! I'm dizzy!"
"Oh," he laughed. "That's not you, that's the bar, it's got sloping floors in here because its on the side of the mountain."

On Saturday night the Gangly Moose played in a smaller pub in the town of Telkeekna, an hour or two further south just beyond the park. It's difficult for me to categorise their style of music: perhaps somewhere in between funk, rock and country with a hell of a lot of freestylin thrown in for good measure - the local crowd were lapping it up like funk-starved pussycats. Never have I seen so many enthusiastic elbow shapes thrown about in such a small space; smirking cowboys were bending knees like Jane Fonda, and sweating young men in wooly hats were twisting around in front like disco rabbits. I bumped into a real cowboy called Eddie who unexpected decided to pull down his jeans and smack his bare arse while shouting, "Yeehaa, here's to all ya'll Brits, yeeehaa!" It wasn't exactly what I was expecting at that moment, but I took it in my stride and smiled graciously.

Revelling in the afterglow of being a real life band roadie the next morning we said goodbye to the Moose and headed back into the park to spend a couple of days in an isolated retreat called Earthsong Lodge: a collection of tiny cabins on windswept tundra that offered spectacular views of Mt. McKinley.

The owners, Jon and Karin, kept a large kennel of working sled dogs on the property. We were invited to take a guided tour to meet the animals, who were of course on summer holidays from their winter duties. These dogs were the result of cross-breeding with traditonal huskies, bred for their strength, size and stamina. When one named Nocturne jumped up on me in an enthusiastic greeting he was almost as tall as me, with iceberg-blue eyes.
I resolved to return here again in winter, when these great windy expanses would be covered in deep snow: a blanket of infinite white reaching up into the glaciers above. Dog sledding excursions - some involving winter camping and lasting days - are run from Earthsong Lodge, and I decided that this is another experience I should put on my life long list of "things to do before I die!"

www.earthsonglodge.com

Getting my goat (or was he getting me?)

2008-05-28T05:22:00.000-07:00

I approach with caution. The goat stares at me with baleful intent.
Closer, just a little closer...
"EEEek!" He takes the biscuit, he really does. (Cue dramatic waving and flapping of arms)

Horses, of courses

2008-05-26T12:59:00.000-07:00

A crisp breeze from the mountain peaks whistled down into the Chena Valley, which was bathed in the amber glow of another endless Alaskan sunset. I galloped on horseback down a dusty track that was fringed with the skeletonal white trunks of birch trees not yet in full leaf. Soon the river came into view; floating slabs of ice clung to shadowy edges where the spring sun had not yet melted away the grip of a seven-month long winter. They say that Alaska truly only has two seasons: winter and summer – spring and autumn arrive fleetingly and are gone again in a matter of weeks.

Ok, maybe I wasn’t exactly galloping. (But it sounded good, didn’t it?)
No, it was more of a leisurely walk, suited to the fact that I was riding a horse for the first time in my life. My horse was a gelding called Sundance (for those of you who don’t know, a gelding is a male horse who has had ‘the snip’) and he and I were getting along just fine. Occasionally he got a little enthusiastic and broke into a bone-jolting trot. It took a while for me to figure out how to use the brakes; meanwhile my bum was experiencing a sensation akin to being beaten with a cricket bat. Eventually, through the haze of posterior pain I coordinated the reins, and gave the command to slow down in what I hoped was an authoritative tone. To my surprise he took notice and ceased to throw me around like a rag doll. Yeah - I thought – Who’s the boss of you! Who’s the boss? I’m the boss, I’m – “Ugh, woah!” I fell forward over his head, dragged down by his sudden movement as he plunged his head into a patch of new grass and began to nibble without any consideration for my comfort. I felt the saddle horn digging into my stomach but held with white knuckles, obeying the number one rule of riding – never lose the reins; lose the feeling in your bum, lose the feeling in your legs, but never let go of the reins. Riding without reins is like driving a car without brakes or steering wheel.
Sundance eventually had his fill of grass and we continued with steady progress across the river, and onto the final part of the trail. The rhythm began to seep into my bones and by the end of the ride I was moving more fluidly in the saddle, swaying with the horse’s movement in a way that John Wayne would have been proud of. I decided that this was much more pleasant than elephant riding.

After a smooth dismount, unaided, I was really impressed with myself, and considering I had never ridden a horse before I think I performed admirably. Sundance and I had a spiritual bond, I was sure of it. I ran my hands down his taut muscled neck and saw my own reflection in the liquid shine of his dark eyes. He stamped magnificently and at that moment a mound of pungent horse crap poured out of his rear, piling on the straw-scattered ground. I moved away and gave him a reproachful look. Yeah, we had some bond, that horse and I.

I walked back to the lodge singing under my breath, “Yeah, I’m a cowgirl, and on this steel horse I ride. I’m wanted: dead or alive.” I peered around expectantly, looking for a sexy cowboy, or maybe Jon Bon Jovi to come galloping out of the sunset.

No such luck.

Out of the frying pool and into the ice kingdom

2008-05-21T18:45:00.000-07:00

I lifted my face into the sunlight, allowing water droplets from the central fountain to rain down and cool my flushed skin. A rainbow arched above the pool and I swirled steaming water around my body. I closed my eyes, a smile stretching across my face.

Bliss.

The Chena Hot Springs were rich in other-worldly enchantment and felt timeless yet ancient. I imagined that a pre-historic creature might lurk beneath the surface, parting the steam every now and again with a splash and the rippling gleam of a tail.

Dark rocks enclosed the pool, and beyond were lush mountains bursting with the first green of a late spring. In winter these pools would be flanked by heavy snow and ice, a blanket of white with a steaming oasis at its heart. At 40 degrees below, wet hair can be sculpted into gravity defying spikes, which freeze instantaneously when they leave the water and hit the frigid air. Chena is a place of duel personalities, it is both winter wonderland and summer playground.

Flushed and slightly light-headed, I felt the heat of the springs radiating from every pore. It was time to cool off in unique Chena style. The Ice Museum: a kingdom of ice where fantasy art and sculpture met sub-zero temperatures.

We paused in the anteroom to close the outer door and don additional winter clothing in preparation for the frosty climate within. Stepping into the inner sanctum was like walking into an industrial-sized freezer. The chill in the air took my breath away. But, oh, what magic dwelt within. A staircase spiralled up into a fairytale tower of ice; jousting knights on horseback were frozen mid-strike next to a giant chess board complete with elaborately carved pieces, and all glowed in rainbow hues in the darkness. A cavernous roof arched high above, lined with ice chandeliers, and further down a doorway opened into the boudoir of an ice princess, featuring an exquisitely carved four-poster bed scattered with the furs of caribou.

I sat on a bar stool with an animal skin the only thing between me and a frozen bum and watched as our bartender served Appletinis into icy glasses, which gave another meaning to martini on the rocks. I felt the top edges melt away with every sip.

Magic Kingdom for sale? Sold!
(To the young woman with the frozen backside and the Appletini afterglow)

The Heat Is On in Chena

2008-05-21T17:38:00.000-07:00

After almost two weeks in this Alaskan cabin, without the convenience of running water, I decided it was about time to have a bath. I felt like I could take a long hot soak for days, and that is exactly what I did.

Chena Hot Springs, renowned for its amazing restorative waters, was discovered by gold miners in 1905, who bathed in the springs to relieve their aches and pains. Everyone loves a good long soak, and people have been taking communal dips in the springs for over a century. A resort dating back to 1914 has slowly grown around the hot springs offering every kind of Alaskan activity you can imagine, including horseback riding, winter dog sledding, and hiking any number of nature trails in the area.

After dreaming of a hot bath for days, Chena Hot Springs seemed to be exactly what I needed. I decided that I would go wallow in the rock pools like a hippopotamus and treat myself to a massage. As my spirit of adventure began to grow, I had great visions of riding bareback into the sunset astride a great stallion, or bravely following bearded rangers into remote mountain passes, pursued by swarms of bat-sized mosquitoes and grizzly bears. The theme tune from Deliverance suddenly popped into my head, and after a moment's consideration, a pre-dinner Martini in the lodge seemed like a much better plan. My escapades as an action heroine could wait until tomorrow.

www.chenahotsprings.com

The Rabbit and the Outhouse

2008-05-14T21:46:00.000-07:00

Morning sunlight was rippling through sparse branches, which were dappled with the merest hint of new buds. Spring was about to bloom.
"Hmmm..." I took a deep breath of fresh air and smiled.
A fluffy rabbit the size of a small dog suddenly burst out of a nearby thicket and hopped forward, finally stopping a few paces away from my woodland throne. He eyeballed me, ears erect, whiskers twitching.
"Pssst!"
"Shoo!"
The rabbit stared, unperturbed.
I'm not usually prone to bouts of performance anxiety but it seemed suddenly weird to take a wee with an uninvited audience, even if it was of the non-human variety.
I giggled. It was my first morning in Alaska, and of all the things I was expecting, this was not it. The rabbit leapt off, apparently startled by my laughter.

Well. This was certainly different. Already I could feel my bond with Mother Nature becoming deeper, more profound. I decided that next time, I would bring a carrot.

USA: Customary Interrogation

2008-05-08T23:19:00.000-07:00

After a smooth and uneventful flight to Seattle, I did not anticipate the harsh grilling I was to receive at US customs and immigration. Never in all my global travels have I been delayed for so long at the passport processing area. I was greeted to the US by a nod and a curt hello. Then I had to give fingerprints and a photograph. Thirty minutes later they were still questioning me in depth about seemingly every detail of my life. Already they had asked for specific information on my job history, educational background, hobbies and interests and romantic history. They even asked me to identify my father's company logo and give his office postal code. They asked me to explain every single stamp in my passport, and then they started asking about my American host, Caleb. What he does, what he did, his romantic history - I was almost expecting them to ask next what colour underwear I'm wearing, and how I like to eat my Cadbury's Cream Eggs.

It occured to me that maybe the U.S. doesn't actually want any tourists, as they were doing a pretty good job of making me feel like some kind of dodgy criminal. One of the questions on the immigration landing form was "Are you now or have you ever been involved in mass genocide?" I thought it was a joke at first! It's a shame that people have to go through intimidation like this just for the opportunity to enter the country and support its tourism economy. I'm so pleased I don't have to go through that again anytime soon!

Needless to say, I went straight to the bar when I arrived in Seattle for my one night stop over. I was thrilled to be asked for I.D. "Wow," I said, "I haven't been asked for I.D. since I was sixteen." Two beers, and four martinis later I felt much better (and who wouldn't) and crashed out, tired, shaken and just a little bit stirred.

The Call of the Wild

2008-04-30T04:28:00.000-07:00

I slept in late today after a restless night that was full of uneasy dreams of the epic variety: vast canyons that required the jumping skills of a tomb raider, an ocean voyage plagued by storms, and an airport with an infinitely long check in queue, where luggage is lost and then burnt in some cavernous foreign furnace - ah, wait, the last one isn't a dream, it's what's happening at London Heathrow's new Terminal 5: a system so 'advanced' that will change the future of air travel as we know it.

God help us all.

When I realised what day it was today, my heart began to pound and I was overcome by the urge to make many lists. That can mean only one thing of course: I am setting off on another great adventure. (and something very different to anything I have experienced before)

This time next week I will be in the Alaskan interior; in the heartland of 586,000 square miles of breath-taking natural beauty that I expect will surpass anything I have seen before. In the forests spring is only just awakening its inhabitants from the long deep winter, and beyond the forest, vast expanses of tundra stretch up to a horizon zig-zagged by snow-capped mountain peaks.

Ship Princess

2008-01-21T17:25:00.000-08:00

Here's a few photos from our Caribbean cruise. My parents and I took an amazing tour around loads of caribbean islands, including Aruba, Jamaica, and Tortola which is world famous for diving!

3 months ago: The Caribbean Revisited

2007-11-15T17:30:00.000-08:00

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...

2007-11-13T17:42:00.000-08:00

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)...

2007-11-13T09:26:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-12T05:21:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-11-12T04:11:00.000-08:00

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

2007-06-02T09:36:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-16T04:45:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-25T13:30:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-13T14:41:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-04T07:29:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-12T04:26:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-02-15T18:40:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-02-15T18:33:00.000-08:00

The final moments...

2007-02-15T18:02:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-02-15T17:57:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-10T08:17:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-02-01T08:47:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-01-29T15:41:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-01-29T15:39:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-29T15:34:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-29T15:27:00.000-08:00

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?

2007-01-29T15:20:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-18T17:01:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-18T16:55:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-12T06:37:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-10T13:35:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-04T09:20:00.000-08:00

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!

What Lisa Did Next: Escape From Canouan

2006-12-25T18:42:00.000-08:00

I am swept up in a veritable whirlwind of emotion as I begin to write this (short) blog entry. There is a bottle of Verve Clicquot at my side (unopened) and a wild mischevious grin on my face.

Tomorrow I leave Canouan. Finally. Dramatically. Oh so Miles & Boon esque?

PLOTLINE: Wild but kind hearted single girl is left jobless and alone on isolated paradise island. Dashing French yacht captain pops by for a cup of tea on route to Pacific Mexico and next thing you know, bob's your uncle, and lonely female adventurer is taken on as crew, destined to sail off into a perfect sunset and live happily ever in Accapulco...

E.T.D. is 12 NOON.

I am anxious, excited, terrified and desperately estatic.

The next time I have access to the internet I will have been at sea for 10 days or more, facing the wild open ocean and encountering amazing sights and sounds, such as breaching whales and dolphins or the ominous slick trail of an shark fin following the boat...(hopefully?!)

WATCH THIS SPACE!!

BON VOYAGE!!

Feel the love HERE!

2006-12-08T10:50:00.000-08:00

http://web.mac.com/miss_behavin

Quick photo in the shop!

2006-12-07T08:51:00.000-08:00

Here's a photo of me and my friend Susan and the internet cafe guy, Devern, just so you all know I'm alive and happy!

A taste of local DIY

2006-12-07T07:51:00.000-08:00

Union island is only 40 minutes from Canouan by ferry, however it is considerably more developed, with the tiny bustling fishing village of Clifton at its centre. It lacks the perimeter of golden sandy beaches offered by Canouan, but makes up for it with civilisation in the form of small hotels and bars, and a variety of modest grocery stores and gift shops. One crucial element that I appreciate more than I can say is the freely available running water. Canouan has no natural water available on the island, so all water must be delivered in large vats at some expense and piped into houses through mostly medieval plumbing systems. Most of the inhabitants do not even have this ‘luxury,’ and use outdoor plastic bowls for all mundane water-related tasks such as washing, bathing and cleaning.

It is with relief then, that I sip my glass of iced tap water straight from one of Union’s underground fresh water wells and consider a cool shower in a moment to refresh myself before bed.

Today I watched three generations of a family, all female, building a house from foundation up with basic shovels and bare hands. The grandmother helped mix the cement with sand and quarry stones, the mother was doing the brunt of the foundation laying and a five year old girl splashed water into the cement mix at intervals. I stood uselessly in the shade of a brick wall, sheltering my sensitive skin from the merciless midday equator sun, and watching in awe as this family built their future with blood, sweat and sheer determination. The husband, and loving father of three (plus three more 'adopted' children) is necessarily absent, working on another island for minimum wages of no more than £330 a month, which must cover the needs of the family, including every precious bag of sand, stone, and brick used on their home building project.

Did you think that a visit to Home Base or Do-It-All for a self-assembly shelf was DIY? Sorry guys, but THIS is the real shit!

These people have almost nothing, however, everything they do have they share with each other, and the neighbours, and the neighbours' kids, and the neighbours' kids' dog, not to mention myself, a stranger in paradise, but accepted nonetheless as family and treated with humbling kindness and warmth.

Oh the drama!

2006-12-04T11:14:00.000-08:00

Oh the drama! My life is anything but boring. I had a fatal clash of personalities with my employer on Canouan island. We had a disagreement about the duties involved with the job, not to mention a few other incompatibility issues which only added to an overall sense of wrongness with the situation. After a few glasses of whisky (him, not me) and some tears (me, not him) I went for a late night walk to work out my options. Never being one to ignore intuition or gut instinct, I got the feck out of there the very next morning. I am currently in a secret location, somewhere off the coast of...err...Venezuala? I have even more secret plans to tour the Caribbean and end up somewhere lovely by early next year.

I have decided not to tie myself down to any dive job until I can be sure of my compatibility with both the owner and the general area. As I am an independant woman of means, I have no problem taking my time to think carefully before I commit to any offer in the future!

If I'm good, I might even get paid for my next job. :P

Island Life

2006-11-26T13:28:00.000-08:00

I have been here for a little over two weeks, and have deliberately waited for this interval before a writing a new update. Two weeks could still be considered ‘holiday’ time after all, even if my new boss has been working me like a dog. Ha. (wink)

The truth is that it has been much more difficult to settle in here than Thailand, indeed, I am still finding my feet and learning more each day about the subtle nuances of island culture and politics. The combination of a busy city, modern conveniences and a ready made mass of friends made my introduction to Thailand a sugar-smooth whirlwind experience, and one that cut my ambilical cord to England in such a way that I woke up one day 3 months into my internship wondering suddenly where all the time had gone. Here, when I am not busy diving the days become long balmy affairs; lazy afternoons in the office (if not out diving) stretch out into the heat-hazed distance, and activity is a minimum. Perhaps I am still so much the city girl, as I feel the time pass as tangibly as a traffic queue, and expect something dramatic to happen at any moment, feeling puzzled when it does not. In my previous fast lane life there wasn’t time to sit around and read a book, or to entertain melancholy thoughts about homesickness. Everything was, “WHAM! BAMN! YESTERDAY MAN!” Now it’s, “Tomorrow man, or whenever yeah.” Can you take the city out of the girl? Can this girl become Island material? Questions I am still wondering tonight as I sit here in the house on the hill and look out over to the other side of the bay. All the lights are on, and everybody is home. After all, where else is there to be? Canouan’s social possibilities for the enthusiastic young are limited slightly to happy hour at one location on Wednesday, BBQ at another on Thursday, Karaoke at a hotel bar on Friday, and drinks at the Sailing Club on Saturday.

Certainly a world away from Pattaya’s voracious no–holds-barred nightlife. If Pattaya exists on one side of the coin, then Canouan exists on the other, dramatically contrasting in almost every way, except for a similarity with climate and it’s tendency to be over-populated with stray dogs and cats!

Here the ocean is turquoise and pristine. Unlike some dive sites in Pattaya there is no danger of finding yourself face to face in the water with the widely-feared Floating-Brown-Poo fish. The customers here are cheerful affluent Americans for the most part, and indeed, considerably richer than ‘yaw’. They are without exception (so far) courteous to the Nth degree, exuberant and trigger happy when it comes to monetary tips. (Not complaining) When I compare these guys to some of the chumps we had to take diving in Pattaya, I shake my head in wonder and thank the heavens above! I can’t deny that diving here is a real treat, but can I cope with the silence after the work day is over? In fact what may be a more appropriate question is, can I cope with the noisy late night TV's and sound systems which regularly compete with each other in the hills, converging film soundtracks, soca, hiphop and reggae beats on the house like a sound tsunami?

Actually I don’t mind it. Especially not after a dosage of something strong and alcoholic. I find it vaguely comforting knowing there’s some party going on out there somewhere, even if I’m not invited yet! I'm sure it’s a matter of time.

Time. There it is again. So much time. Time that has passed and time that is passing. I just hope that I am spending mine with the care that it deserves.

Setting a sunny scene...

2006-11-24T06:40:00.000-08:00

And so it begins...

2006-11-12T10:57:00.000-08:00

I'm writing this from my fabulous new place of work! I lean on the counter and look out into the bay; turquoise waters dotted with elegant yachts set against a background of lush cliffs. If you look closely you can see pastel-coloured houses clustered up the hillside like candy treats within the jungle!

This is my second day, and I still feel like I'm dreaming. I have been diving three times already, and I am trying to absorb as much as possible before next week, when I will be with 'real' customers from the oh-so-exclusive Raffles resort.
The visibility here is incredible. I have only seen water so clear in national marine parks in and around Thailand. Already I have met some of the local residents: a barracuda, several moray eels, a snake eel, and of course the wondrous and beautiful reef fish. The turtles are hiding from me at the moment. They are probably shy of new faces!

It's very hot and humid here at the moment, and I already have a collection of mosquito bites to be proud of! Do I care? No. It's a small downside to what is the most exciting opportunity I have ever had. This is truly a place where dreams are made.

I will get some photos and more stories very soon!

Autumn Days

2006-10-26T06:25:00.000-07:00

Ahh, the crisp smell of autumn in the cool fresh air.

Bright winter sunlight and baby blue skies.

Ochre, gold and crimson, gleaming everywhere.

Oh look! I'm back in England! What a nice surprise!

It's really lovely being back in the UK, even though it is only for a short interlude before I jet off to another tropical island in the sun. (It's a hard job, but someone's got to do it ;) Maybe that's the reason I am enjoying myself so much at the moment - because I am aware that my time here is limited. As a result I am much more tolerant of everyone around me. Dad's jokes, which are often rubbish, I find myself laughing at quite genuinely. My brother and I usually communicate with monosyllabic grunts and awkward silences:

Me: Uh, alright?
Him: Yea... you?
Me: uh huh.

But recently we had a whole conversation over dinner. It was fantastic.

And, yesterday evening when I went to the newsagents, and saw all the little pikees hanging outside bumming fags from strangers and drinking cider, (it's half term) instead of pointedly ignoring them, and thinking "kids today," I smiled at them directly and thought, "aw bless those little hooligans." In response one lad nudged his mate and said, "arr, she wants yaw!" And so I tried to maintain grace as I walked away to a chorus of catcalls and graphic suggestions which should never have come from boys so young! I was shocked! I thought, "kids today!"

We celebrated my dad's birthday a couple of days ago. We had a family outing to our favourite local restaurant. It's one of those proper English pubs, with old oak beams and roaring fireplaces. The kind of place you dream about as summer fades, and you look ahead to festive winter evenings spent cradling a glass of your favourite tipple in a cosy corner.

Parting is such sweet sorrow...

2006-10-16T03:28:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this from a swanky hotel in Bangkok. Not as exciting as it sounds, as I'm staring outside at the smog that sluggishly drapes itself around Bangkok's cityscape like a sticky shawl. In one direction the mud-flavoured river snakes into the distance, dotted with long tail boats and river cruisers, some of which sport trendy Thai style roofs. In all other directions the city spreads it's fingers infinitely, slums and luxury high rises living side by side, fighting for available space and light like plants competing in an overcrowded urban garden.

I am weary and emotional. I feel that I have had my fill of Thailand in this particular chapter of life. I look ahead, and yearn for the moment when I can feel my parent's deep pile hall carpet in Alzarin Crimson under my beach worn toes. I look back, and feel a lump in my throat as I see the faces of my friends I exchanged the most poignant goodbyes with earlier.

It's 5.30pm local time, which means I left Pattaya 5 hours ago, in a mini bus packed full of my worldly possessions, Bangkok bound. This also means that I am due in the bar within the next few minutes, to sip a Singapore Sling with my dad (a.k.a. Big Jeff), beat him at cards (again), and cheer myself up with a plate of fresh ravioli stuffed with spinach and ricotta, drizzled in a basil and green pesto dressing.

Our flight leaves tomorrow morning from Bangkok International Airport, so I shall endeavour to behave myself this time, and avoid suspicious behaviour around bins, unlike last time. I've over-stayed my visa and will have to pay extra, so I fully expect to be manhandled from the passport control queue, in fact I'd be horribly disappointed if I wasn't. :)

Me when I've had a few

2006-09-20T04:35:00.000-07:00

Several more drinks along...

IDC Group Photo!

2006-09-20T04:28:00.000-07:00

I PASSED!!!

2006-09-20T03:39:00.000-07:00

Aaaah. The sweet taste of my first beer in 2 weeks!

Feeling happy and glowing on the way to town after a few cheeky beverages at dinner.

A Day In The Diving Life

2006-08-29T01:48:00.000-07:00

It's been 5 months since I landed upon this distant shore, and you may wonder what the more mundane side of life is like, when I am not swinging Tarzan-like through the jungle, riding elephants bareback or wrestling sharks.

A typical day in the 'diving' life is as follows:

I wake up around 7.15am, crawl bleary-eyed out of bed and gulp down a bottle of water to compensate for the dehydrating effects of a night spent beneath my uber-powerful air conditioning unit.

I leave my condo, greeting the security staff with the usual "Sawadee Ka" and make my way down the long drive, valiently ignoring the motorbike taxi men who continue to harrass me for business, just as they have done every day for 5 months. They are without a doubt the most tenacious sales men I have ever met. The image of a dog and bone springs to mind. Don't they ever give up?

"Where you go? Where you go?" They call out.
I smile and shake my head. That's the only English they know, thus any detailed response is pointless. I say nothing and walk by. Or I point in a random direction and say "I go there." It doesn't matter where "there" is. The other day I pointed at a Go Go Bar. Before that, I waved towards a building site. It's all gravy, baby.

I flag down a Song Theow, also known affectionately as a Baht bus, which are effectively pick up trucks with benches in the back for you to sit down on. When you want to get off, you ring the bell, and pay your 10 Baht.

As we drive along the beach road at alarming speed, I look out for the large red PADI sign which signals my turn to ring a ding ding that bell. I hit the button and we lurch to a shuddering halt, barely missing three Thai girls, one baby, one dog and one basket all sharing the same scooter.

I amble up the side street, blinking in the bright morning sun, and pass a couple of interns on their way past - no doubt paying a visit to the 7 Eleven for cigarettes and cheese and onion pasties. As I approach Mermaids there are groups of interns hanging around outside the shop, discussing last night's festivities on Walking street (sin central), and comparing hangovers. I say hello to everyone and make my way into the kit room, where we all store our equipment in large metal cages. When it rains heavily, the room leaks, forming puddles on the floor, thus it's well-deserved namesake, 'The Swamp'.

I join the other interns outside, having deposited my gear in the correct pile for the correct boat. (Usually...although mistakes can be made easily enough; I have previously sent my kit south and sent myself north). I engage in some social time over a cup of tea and a bacon buttie until the Baht bus arrives to take us to the port.
It's time to flex my non existent muscles as I help with the loading effort, carrying tanks and boxes in all shapes and sizes, before finally loading myself onto one of the trucks. At this point a slightly frantic Dive Master** or Dive Master in Training calls out names and points stragglers to the correct bus, some people jump off again at this stage, if they have left their bag on the steps, or forgotten to collect their egg sandwich from the bacon lady. (who must be raking it in, charging 50 Baht for just 1 bacon bap?) Eventually, the correct people are squeezed onto the correct bus, and off we trundle. The driver speeds to the pier as usual, occasionally ignoring the fact he has a bus load of people and a few hundred kilos of equipment on board. (particularly over the speed bumps - I think he does it on purpose, and chuckles wickedly to himself?!)

There is orderly chaos as we exit the bus, and we form a line all the way down from the top of the steps to the boat as we load up the equipment boxes and tanks. The acting DM that day does a role call and a boat brief, and off we go.

(Will complete this story on my next session...sorry about the delay!)

** Mermaids does not employ any Divemasters as permanent staff on the pay role...so this role is performed by volunteer interns when they have the inclination to help out... obviously, when an experienced DM goes home or moves on to be an instructor, the role may filled by a less experienced intern, who may continue volunteering until they become experienced and then also move on or away, and so it continues...

Pattaya lives & young Thai wives

2006-08-26T01:57:00.000-07:00

Now that the after-glow of my recent success has finally faded away, (as it was certain to do), I have returned to my usual past-time of alternating diving days (which are busy and physically strenuous days of slipping and sliding around boats and fiddling with equipment) with 'leisure' days (which are *supposed* to be for study and relaxation, possibly combined with an attempt to embrace some of the local culture, finished off with several laps of the pool and a healthy dinner.)

Ha.

The people in this town think culture is a band from the 80's, and that if they're wearing the t-shirt (cheap rip off guaranteed to shrink to barbie size on the first wash) then that must result in entry to the club? Sorry but no cigar. Not even a cigarette. And while I am on the subject, smoking a marlboro that has a white filter instead of your common garden variety brown tip does not make you look cooler, more elegant or more cultured; the fact remains that you will still smell bad and die.

Oh, see, I have done it again. I digress from my topic almost as much as J. R. Tolkien does in his fat arsenal of shelf tremblingly weighty epics.

Going back to the subject in hand...

If I was to embrace some of the local residents here in Pattaya too closely, I may catch something. That’s a fact. Quite possibly even the door-to-door pizza delivery man wears protective gloves against the miscreants who may open their door to him, offering a crumpled Baht note from a sweaty palm while young Thai girls cavort within, enthusiastically awaiting his return so they can fulfil all his sick fantasies while professing undying love and stealing his wallet, which is almost as fat as him.

There’s a t-shirt sold locally here:

Good guys go to heaven,
Bad guys go to Pattaya.

(They wish)
The only guys I have seen wearing this are bald and beer-bloated. They buzz around triumphantly on 50cc scooters proudly sporting their latest fashion statement, a Thai girlfriend, and they invariably accessorise their look with those high waisted golf shorts (is there anything sexier?), a classic pair of M&S sports socks, and Jesus sandals, courtesy of The Next Catalogue Spring Summer 06.
These guys are bad alright. Bad to the core. So bad that at age 40 they still live in England with their mom, who irons their jeans and gets them up in the morning for their 9-5 desk job. They are so bad that they eat at least 4, no, even 5 donuts every morning, and break all company regulations every lunchtime by looking at hardcore photo-shopped online photos of Angelina Jolie. After work, they drink pints and make pornographic suggestions about the gorgeous copy girl, who is utterly oblivious to their existence. Later, they continue their wild spree with a few hours of online gaming, during which they battle warlocks, ride around on horseback flexing their cyber muscles and talk dirty to a young elf, until mom interrupts their fantasy with a reminder that they have to be up in the morning for work, and isn’t it time for bed now?

I apologise for being a little harsh :) There are, of course all kinds of men here from all walks of life...I am simply picking on the most amusing group for the benefit of my blog!

Pattaya is a place where dreams are made - specifically male fantasies! I'll be pleased to leave here, but I am also glad to say that I saw this and lived here, and of course it has provided me with endless amusing anecdotes that will entertain friends for years to come, and no doubt inspire my writing in a way that living in Birmingham never could!

That's Pattaya.
Next blog will be all about diving here!

A belated post for my long lost 2nd cousin!

2006-08-26T01:49:00.000-07:00

During my excursion to Malaysia I mentioned briefly that I met up with my second cousin, Mark, whom I have never met before, and none of my close family has ever had the opportunity either. So, I went forth to the heart of Johor Bahru as an ambassador for my side of the clan and made the connection! He's happily married in Kuala Lumpar with a couple of young children, only a sprinkling of years older than me, and great fun to hang out with! We had a real giggle (I was doing most of the giggling, he was a chuckler) and I promised that I would post up our photos so everyone could share our meeting! So here we are, in JH, in July!

DIVE MASTER!

2006-08-01T01:57:00.000-07:00

Hooray!! I have survived an arduous two weeks of physical and mental exertion, and I am proud to say that I am now a Dive Master! (Photo of me and Mark - friend and instructor)

(Here I am celebrating with the compulsory initiation into professional dive ranks ... the dreaded "snorkel"! While wearing a mask and a snorkel, you take a breath and then people tip various alcoholic beverages into the top! You continue until you can't drink anymore or your breath runs out, and then the surrounding crowd cheer and give a round of applause as you splutter in a puddle!)

(Later in the night ... I am making a fashion statement of sorts...men's boxer shorts make a delightful hat, and roses set off the neckline a treat)

The Jungle Adventure

2006-07-16T04:51:00.000-07:00

A long boat takes us to our destination in the heart of Tamara Negra, the national park in central Malaysia.

The misty jungle beckons. (Tarzan, top left)

I'm a celebrity Diver, Get Me Out Of Here! (er, where's Ant and Dec?)

The brave adventurer returns from the jungle trek triumphant, and wearing..er...brown rubber shoes with pulled up men's socks? Somebody call the fashion police!

Singapore

2006-07-09T04:59:00.000-07:00

Even though the city of Johor Bahru is no more than a kilometre across the river from Singapore, the differences between the two are startling. Predominantly Muslim, Johor Bahru is absolutely filthy; a large building site that in truth has seen its better days.

Singapore by contrast is a city that sparkles from top to bottom as if Mr Sheen Shine nips around every night, polishing every window, each lamppost, and even individual gutters, all in time for rush hour.

Singapore is known as The "Fine City" due to its Orwellian government, who dole out social behavioural fines to its residents and visitors like one might dole out candy to children.

1000 Dollar penalty for neglecting to cross the road within designated crossing lanes.

500 Dollar penalty for eating or drinking in public.

500 Dollar penalty for unauthorised dancing.

A "fine" city indeed!

2006-07-07T22:43:00.000-07:00

We arrived in Johor Bahru, the Malaysian gateway to Singapore, late at night, and checked into our slightly swanky hotel (my choice) where I hoped to be united with my second cousin, who has lived in Malaysia for years with his wife and children. The hotel was within a compound designed for westerners and duty free shopping, but everything was shut at that late hour, so we decided to walk out a little way along the main street.

It was a little bizarre walking along that dirty pavement at 1am. We stuck out like a sore thumb; two young european girls in western clothes wandering around unescorted looking for a place to get some food. Local men sitting at plastic chairs and tables stared blatently at us, and so we sat down at the nearest cafe and tried to blend in!

Nobody spoke a word of English, and the menu was in malaysian, so ordering was a little tricky! We ended up randomly pointing at an item and hoped for the best! The man brought over a wicker basket full of what looked like banana leaves, and something was inside that looked a little like red gelatin. Emily suggested that we try it, in order to embrace the local culture.

It was utterly hideous.

It had a slimy mousse-like texture and tasted of sour chemicals that was not unlike mosquito repellent. Suddenly a dawning realisation hit me. I looked around to see if anyone else was eating their funny baskets of goo, and noticed that no other customer had touched this strange fragnant offering.

"It's mosquito repellant!" I hissed. "We just ate the mosquito repellant!"

"Oh god." Said Emily. "It does taste and smell exactly like mosquito repellant."

We looked furtively around.

"Why didn't they stop us, oh, I'm so embarrassed." I whispered.

We attempted a quick escape, but a man came running over to us holding the banana leaf basket of mush, and was saying something about paying for it. I was a little confused to say the least. I turned to a table near the exit and saw it's occupants tucking into the peculiar parcels as if it were completely normal.

Anyway, to cut a long story short. The funny parcels were actually maashed up fish guts, which is a Malaysian delicacy, (albeit a very gross one) and the reason they smelt specifically of mosquito repellent is because we both had liberally sprayed ourselves 30 mins earlier with strong DEET and forgotten to wash our hands. All in all a culinery disaster, but a well-deserved learning curve, in which I learnt to always wash my hands before eating fish guts.

Close Encounters of the Shark Kind

2006-06-29T04:15:00.000-07:00

I'm pleased to let you know that I escaped the clutches of Bangkok's most heinous security force, and jetted far far away to the otherside of Malaysia, to a tiny desert island where dreams are made. It is a tiny uninhabited jewel in the Celebes Sea, a small forested interior framed by ivory white sands that drop gently into perfect pale turquiose water. The water drops away only a few metres from the beach into a deep rich coral ecosystem dazzlingly vibrant and brimming with rainbow painted fish, huge turtles, and occasional sharks in deeper water (if you're lucky)!

The truth is that my life is forever changed since my diving adventure to Sipadan island. I have experienced the more unusual and extreme side of recreational diving, and in doing so have come closer to the awesome beauty of mother nature first hand.

Imagine if you will a city office block, so tall at 60 metres that you are little more than a tiny insect at its base. Now imagine the same sense of distance underwater, where you are hovering a few metres off a steep vertical drop of a seemingly infinite reef wall. When you float on your back and look up to the surface you can see misty sunlight far far above. To look down is to stare into the mouth of an inky dark void, stretching endlessly down for hundreds and hundreds of metres. On your right side, the open ocean is huge and blue and dizzying.

My maximum depth was digitally recorded as 60 metres, and at this depth the spell of nitrogen narcosis was powerful and intoxicating. In effect, I felt the world going by in slow motion, my bubbles sounded metallic and echoing, I found myself impulsively giggling out loud and I felt a huge rush of euphoria. (Please note however that I was aware that this was narcosis, and reacted with caution to my own impulses!)

Suddenly I became aware of my dive buddies shrieking loudly enough for the sound to reach me. Our dive leader began to rap on his tank rapidly with his dive knife.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I turned my head towards the open ocean.

Time stopped. I'm sure I forgot to breathe.

Not 30 metres from us, and in slightly shallower water swam a shoal of large hammerhead sharks too numerous to even begin to count. I would estimate hundreds - maybe even a thousand. These magnificant creatures moved as a cloud, momentarily blocking out the sun.

Stop. Breathe. Think. My dive training kicked back into my awe-struck mind and I remembered to breathe! At this point half the group started chasing the sharks at top speed, and I thought about it for just a second before I joined in the chase! Of course we could never keep up with them, and it wasn't long before I watched the last of these graceful gorgeous creatures disappear back into the deep blue sea.

There are many divers out there with years of experience who have never had the opportunity to get so close to so many sharks in the wild, and this is a moment I will take with me for the rest of my life!

Fear and paranoia in Bangkok

2006-06-12T20:08:00.000-07:00

I have just completed the most bizarre ritual in and around Bangkok airport. I am seriously questioning my own sanity.

There is, of course, that niggling anxiety whenever one has to spend anytime in the centre of operations of Bangkok's meanest police and customs department. Any bother here, and you are almost certainly on a one way train to a life sentence in the Bangkok "Hilton", forever destined to spend the rest of your days covered in rats; trading sexual favours with the local wildlife in return for the last drag of a dirty cigarette. Or at the very least, trouble in this place will result in several hours imprisoned in a hot little room where many men will shout in your face and ask questions in languages that you don't understand, before subjecting you to a unpleasant full body search and chucking you onto the sidewalk, dazed and confused, with your wallet a lot lighter than it was before.

When you mix this level of media-born paranoia with the additional worry that you are carrying around with you a piece of paper, upon which is written, clearly, in bold print, every pertinent detail of your whole life - everything from passport number to credit card details, home address and bank sort codes. Well, as you can imagine, this can make a person nervous. You would want to destroy this piece of paper as quickly as possible, wouldn't you. However the mode of destruction is key: screw it up and put it in the bin, tear it up and put it in the bin, burn it, scribble over it, or eat it?

I began to burn it, but stopped myself in horror. Start a table fire in Bangkok airport? Am I crazy? That would draw far too much attention.

Tear it up and put it in the bin? Obvious, but too obvious. Someone may be watching and retrieve the pieces later in order to steal my identity!

So I decided to tear up 1cm - squared pieces and go for a walk around the departure lounge, posting each piece of paper in a different bin.

When I reached the conclusion of my secret mission, it suddenly occurred to me that my military bin operation may have appeared at best, odd, or at worst, suspicious, to anyone watching.

Thus I sit here, with a head full of fear and paranoia, loathing and indigestion (Burger King) swirling through my mind and my small intestine. In a moment I will pay the lady at the internet cafe reception, and I will walk back to our table as if I am a normal person - a person who does not indulge in weird rituals with waste paper bins, or fantasise about eating note paper. (looking around furtively) See you on the otherside, fair readers. (Cue spy music) (Fade to black)

The Similans

2006-06-10T02:13:00.000-07:00

On May 24th I jumped on a plane to Phuket (in the south) with a few fellow divers, and upon arriving there we were taken to the local port where our live-aboard boat was waiting to whisk us away into the Andaman Sea. There I hoped we would witness the wonders of unspoilt reefs, underwater colour palettes beyond my widest imaginings and lots and lots of sharks!

Our destination was a group of fairly spread out islands called The Similans. The boat travelled overnight that first night to get us there, and upon awaking at 7am I was greeted by a beautiful sunny morning; glorious golden sunlight rippled blindingly along the surface of the vibrant blue water, which was calm now. Last night had been a little rough – I had been rolling around in bed with the swell of the waves! Lucky I don’t get seasick!

I went upstairs to the middle deck and had a cup of tea with everyone. I was still half asleep. (Anyone who has ever had to see me at 7.00am would vouch for the fact that I am most certainly not a morning person!) However, sleepy eyed or not, I plodded onto the wet deck and peeled myself yawningly in my wetsuit, managed to attach my weight belt without dropping it on my toe, and got upright with my BCD (jacket) and tank on without falling over. Amazing. My giant stride entry into the sea was more of a giant roll, however, in the moment of hitting that gorgeously refreshing water, my senses were suddenly awakened and, floating at the surface I blinked at my surroundings as if I had just woken up! My dive buddy, Crowley (a Similans Veteran) smiled and said, “look down.”

I dunked my mask into the water, and immediately choked on a mouthful of seawater as I gasped in utter awe at the scene below me. Letting out an excited shriek which was half bubbles half sound, I turned back to Crowley with a huge grin, “OH MY GOD! Have you seen that…I can’t believe…WOW…that’s AMAZING…seriously, WOW!”

“Shall we?” He signalled to descend.

I emptied the air out of my BCD, put in my regulator and slipped below the surface. The scene below me was laid out like something from my dreams. As if looking through glass, I could see directly to the bottom, which was about 31 metres deep. Large shoals of tiny silvery fish swam through mid-water, and brighter species were further down, darting in between rocks and hiding in soft coral beds. Looking up at the surface, the sunlight appeared to explode on the surface, so bright that I had to look away, but the clear water allowed the light to reflect straight down to the white sand bottom with illumination that clarified every tiny detail of the marine life surrounding me. Tiny shrimp no bigger than my finger could be seen scuttling around on hard coral. Majestically coloured angel fish swam around in pairs as if involved in some ritual of courtship, and the striped squirrel fish kept close together under a rock, wide-eyed and swimming frantically but, (comically) going nowhere. We even saw a number of prickly-looking lion fish, which have a multitude of fins that look like black and red and white butterfly wings, and are extremely venomous. Needless to say, we kept a polite distance from those particular residents.

As we moved through the site, some divers gathered around a rock set apart from the rest, and as I swam over I saw a giant moray eel gaping out from his cave. Head stuck up, eyes roving round, and displaying his razor sharp teeth every few seconds, this was not one of the friendlier locals. I could see that the length of his body coiled through the entire rock…and at a guess he was well over a metre long! We took photos and then left him to his breakfast hunting.

Upon surfacing 47 minutes later we were all chattering in delight, and I practically leapt out of the water, feeling energised and impatient for the next dive. I followed my nose upstairs and saw breakfast laid out: eggs, sausages, toast and fruit. Having worked up such an appetite with my early exercise I tucked in and spent the next 2 hours relaxing with a book, before jumping in the water again for our next dive.

The first dive of the following day (Elephant Head Rock)was undoubtedly the peak of my entire adventure so far. I had been following our dive leader through a system of swim-throughs (areas where rocks had fallen or hollowed out to create short tunnels), and as I swam out of one tunnel formation, the dive leader turned around to get my attention, giving the underwater sign for ‘shark’. My heart immediately started beating more rapidly in excitement, and I finned faster to catch up with him in case the shark disappeared. As I came to the edge of a large, flat granite rock, and peeked around the wall to my left, I caught my first glimpse of the shark – a creature that I have dreamed of seeing in the wild since I was a child. It was a white tip reef shark, probably only 2 metres in length, and swimming a few metres away at the same depth as me. I was struck by how fluid and graceful it was; lead grey in colour, tight and sleek and muscular, with a flat hard line for a mouth like a grimace, and an almost two-dimensional cold dead stare, giving it a look of being in a bad mood. Yet, I have never seen anything look so grumpy* and so beautiful at the same time!

*(To give him credit, I’m sure he wasn’t grumpy, that’s just an example of my need as a human to personify other animals with human characteristics in order to better relate to them as individuals!)

That dive we saw 3 more white tip reef sharks, and I was heartbroken when we had to begin our descent. I watched them on the way back up and saw them circling far below and I thought, “Bye for now, but I’ll be seeing you again…”

(And I definitely will. This is only the beginning of my shark-chasing days!)

The days meandered along in a relaxed manner: 4 dives a day, meals in between, and nights spent at leisure, listening to music, drinking beer, playing cards, not to mention our late night guitar sessions spent on the upper-deck under an infinite starry sky. It was an incredibly spiritual experience to sit up there under the heavens, knowing that we were somewhere in the middle of the ocean, miles away from any civilisation.

Next stop is Borneo, and Malaysia. Watch this space!

The rain in Pattaya stays mainly in the roads...and on the pavements...and inside the bars...and on my head...

2006-05-21T03:08:00.000-07:00

The word "torrential" has evolved into a whole new meaning for me in the last week or two. Never again will I be able to take my father seriously when, standing in the conservatory, he looks out at England's attempt at a rain shower, shaking his head in contemplation, and declares unequivocally that the weather today is utterly "torrential."

What just happened to me however, is the very definition of "torrential." Halfway through my last paragraph I frantically scooped up my laptop and my beer and joined the stampede of interns all headed for the safety of a non-leaking roof (a rarity in this place).

Damn, I just straightened my hair earlier...what in hell was I thinking.

Anyway, when it rains here, it floods. Noah would be jealous if he was still alive, or if, indeed he ever existed. But that's another debate, and I'm getting dripped on.

2006-05-20T03:52:00.000-07:00

Me and my new boyfriend.
Me and my home girl Jade, who came to visit me with the lovely Jazz in tow!

2006-04-26T02:53:00.000-07:00

Me in the bar with a couple of diving interns, Alex and Wayne! Sam Song all round!

Girls, they got girls, gorgeous girls! Very Nice! You wanna see em?

2006-04-25T05:26:00.000-07:00

Gin and Tonics ---> Bus full of drunken interns ----> Pattaya central Go Go street ---> More Gin and Tonics ----> Girls naked everywhere ---> Ladyboys...I think...(have to look twice - they are very pretty) ----> More naked girls writhing on poles ---> More drinks ---> Loud music ----> Girls in cages with whips ----> More bars ---> Bright lights ----> Old fat men with adolescent Thai girls ----> Naked Thai girls in a jacuzzi ----> More drinks ----> Kebab ----> Stagger home, and collapse in hot dirty room, no sign of cockroaches. The end.

The First Hours

2006-04-14T23:25:00.000-07:00

"What's this?" I hear you cry. "One week in Thailand already and no blog?"

Well, I have been entirely too confuddled, muddled, puzzled, dazed, and confused to utter anything other than a prehistoric "Ugg" for the best part of these past few days. To quote Coldplay:

Nobody said it was easy.
But nobody said it would be this hard.

Now that I have recovered a small part of my sanity, I will attempt to take you on a literal excursion through the events of the last 7 days.

**********************************************************
The flight, although it was comfortable enough, was unusually for me, a terribly anxious journey. The source of my unrest was not so much the turbulence (although there was a fair bit of that), or the lengthy duration, but instead, this panic that had been festering in my gut for days like the frightened flapping of a caged bird, and I had until now done a great job of holding it back. However, it was doomed to surface at some point, and surface it did, in these sickening waves that were my constant companion throughout the entire journey. I maintained a stiff upper lip though, (hitting yourself in the mouth tends to stiffen up the whole area nicely).

Bangkok wasn't what I expected, but then I am unsure what I expected to begin with. Possibly brighter Sahara style sun, beating down on streets full of chickens and people in hats shaped like fruit bowls. To my bemusement, Bangkok looksexactly like parts of any UK city centre, but with a leaden sky that presses down upon you like a hot soggy blanket. Of course, the faces, the signs, the images are all alien, but I was relieved to find out that Thailand is a left-hand-drive country, grasping as I was for the familar in the midst of so much that was unknown.

Smiling and nodding was the best policy I found, when attempting to respond to my driver's attempts to communicate. He would point energetically out of the window every now and again, and say "you loo, you loo", and I would scan the horizon to find his point of reference. Occasionally I would notice a beautifully architectured building in the far distance, but mostly I just saw endless palm trees, roadside stalls, and huge bill boards advertising things like "50 SPF, SKIN WHITENING CREAM, FOR WHITEST SKIN EVER!" This particular board had a beautiful pale Thai woman in close-up, beaming with her perfect oh so white smile. In comparison to the people I saw on the road sides and in surrounding vehicles (crammed into the back of pick-up trucks), there was nobody even close to being that pale. Hell, I don't think even I was that pale then, and I was the FNG* freshly off the plane! How strange that we aspire to be tanned in Britain, and pay good money for bottle tans, sunbeds, skin bronzer, you name it, and here they aspire for the exact opposite, and pay good money to achieve what we cast away with contempt.

But I digress. I arrived in the evening, about 6pm local time. The driver took me to my hotel, called "Jomtien Long Stay" (I later found out that it was referred to as the long stay penitentary by the diving interns), and I was left there to check in, suddenly alone, and very very hot. A Thai man assisted me with my luggage, and let me into a room on the 2nd floor. As we turned on the lights, it became immediately apparent that this was almost certainly not my room - there were articles of men's clothing strewn around and a tangled bed sheet lying on the floor. I raised an eyebrow at my porter, and he shrugged and back-tracked out of there with my case. Momentarily abandoning me in the corridor while he returned to reception for further instructions, I fanned myself with my passport, and wondered what the hell I had let myself in for. As if in answer to my prayer, the door opposite opened at that exact moment, and a tall blonde tanned muscular surf dude type bloke stepped out of his room wearing a towel. He didn't look very old, I guessed about 21.

"Ahh, hey there, you just arrived, yeah?"

I sagged with relief to find a capable-looking English speaker. I could tell from his accent that he was South African, and that fit pretty well into that whole traveller surf dude concept I had already invented for him. We chatted for a minute or 2, and I discovered that he was not only a neighbour, but also a fellow scuba intern with Mermaids. Over the next hour, I got into my (hot dirty dusty) room, flapped my arms at a cockroach (which Carl - the neighbour - dutifully removed), had a shower, unpacked some things, and accepted Carl's invitation to go out for a beer.

**************
(I will continue the story later, I am almost finished with my internet time!)

Livin' it up at the airport

2006-04-07T10:57:00.000-07:00

I can happily say that I am presently sat in utmost comfort in one of Heathrow's business class lounges. I am feeling smug, which negates my previous feelings of sadness and loss after saying goodbye to my family. It was pretty awful, to be honest, a real emotional rollercoaster. However I soaked up my tears in the taxi with a piece of Bounty kitchen roll, which I can now confirm *does* actually perform better than any other leading kitchen towel.

I talked at length with my driver, Bob. We discussed the benefits of globe trotting, why I should definately visit San Fransisco, and I finally sang the theme tune to "The Littlest Hobo" as I felt it was appropriate at the time.

I skipped all of the economy class queues, (which serpentined far into the distance) and checked in at Business Class (airily named 'Premium Laurel'), where I made a joke about the weight of my non existant shoe collection in order to distract the check in guy from the fact my case was over the weight restriction. Apparently it worked, as he beamed at me, attached a sticker on my case stating "Priority Load", and it was whisked away by a super efficient attendant - no doubt to its own luxurious lounge to have it's zippers polished.

I made my way through endless security checks and rows of shiny cosmetics counters - all claiming to change your life, make body beautiful and give you lips like Angelina Jolie. I valiently ignored their attempts to spray me on the way past. After all I am a human, not a cat.

Finally, joyously, I entered through some tinted glass doors and flashed my ticket to the reception staff. Breathing a sigh of relief I headed straight for the refreshment zone in the far corner, where I was delighted to find self service beer taps, of which I availed myself immediately. (What did you expect?)

Thus, here I am sitting in a cosy work station, writing this tale of sorrow and joy; highs and lows. The only thing that I am certain of is that I can only get higher. Like 4000 feet higher.

Now I am going to carry on being brave and strong, with my friend in the corner. His name is Carlsberg.

2006-03-17T14:03:00.000-08:00

For every action there is a reaction

2006-03-15T14:48:00.000-08:00

Upon hearing the news of my spontaneous adventure, different people reacted in a number of different ways.

The majority of friends smiled, shook their heads, and gave their best wishes, in the same way that one might pat an adorable child on the head who keeps stealing biscuits, and say,
"Ahh, run along now, I should have known you were the biscuit thief."
Evidently I am all too predictable in my unpredictability. (Ask Mr Cobblers)

One guy became quite anxious, but I was unable to work out if he was more anxious about my journey, or my absence.

One girl hooted down the phone in what was a startlingly brilliant impression of a parakeet, and was quite beside herself with amused hysteria for the best part of 5 minutes. I later understood that, at the time, she thought I was joking. Maybe the build up to my revelation was somehow lacking?

ME: Oh, yes, I'm fine thanks, are you feeling better?
HER: Yeah, I'm good thanks, ...so what you been up to?
ME: Oh, well, I'm leaving the country, hopefully forever, to be a scuba diving instructor in Thailand.
HER: What?!

One guy on msn messenger, with whom I was making rather forced small talk, responded to my news with, "You're in fucking cloud cuckoo land, you are." I blinked at his fairly abrasive comment, and then reminded myself that I don't like him anyway, and that he is probably just envious that I have the freedom to start a new life of travel and adventure on the high seas, with only the wind in my hair and a pink flamingo on my shoulder.

Of course, several people beamed at me when I delivered the news to them, and before the day was out, they had checked their holiday allowances for the year ahead, and researched flights to Bangkok.

A good friend from Holland responded by emailing me the following quote, which I thought was just perfect, and obviously, so did he.

"You can waste a whole lifetime,
trying to be,
what you think is expected of you,
but you'll never be free."

He didn't need to say anymore.

And neither do I...

The infinite wisdom of the key cutter man

2006-02-22T06:56:00.000-08:00

The other night I was overwhelmed by the desire to radically change my hair. Cutting it wasn't an option as I've decided to grow it again now, to go with that whole 'I'm a beach hippie' look that I intend to master by the time summer rolls around. But still this inimitable force drove me to do *something* different. So I dyed it bright red. Shocking? Yes. Successful? Not very.

I was just casually strolling down my local village high street yesterday, when I decided to pop into "The Hagley Cobbler" - a place of many wonders, including lightbulbs, shoe re-heeling and key-cutting. I enjoyed this shop so much at Christmas, (when many light bulbs blew, and many extra plugs were needed), that I even sent the key cutter man a card. It read:

Dear Mr Cobblers

Thankyou so much for all my home appliances and accessories over the last few months. Thanks to you, the lights are on, even though quite often nobody is home.

Merry Christmas!

From, that girl who lives up the road, who always makes you laugh!

Well, I walked into the shop again yesterday afternoon, in dire need of another light bulb, no less. The key cutter man (a.k.a. Mr Cobblers) looked up sporting his usual kindly frown, and broke into a grin when he saw me.

"Nice hair." He says, still smiling. "I almost didn't recognise you."
"Yeah, well, I fancied a change." I say.
He laughs a great big belly laugh.
"What?" I ask, suddenly aware that my hair is a slightly unsuccessful shade of red.
"So you finally gave that good for nothing boyfriend of yours his marching orders, then!" He starts chuckling again.

At this point, I am most bemused, because, that is exactly what I did do. Just 2 or 3 weeks ago in fact. In the aftermath I sorted out my wardrobes, chucked out old clothes, (shopped for new clothes), changed my kitchen around, and booked a life changing one-way flight to Thailand.

"How did you know I did that?" I ask the key cutter man. God, am I really that predictable?
Still smiling, he pronounces, "That's what women do. Break up with a boyfriend, change their image."
Oh my god. This man is a genius. I have new-found awe and respect for Mr Cobblers. He will come to be known in history as the wise man who took keys, and gave answers.

The flamingo and the list

2006-02-20T16:59:00.000-08:00

Tying up loose ends is never an easy job. In fact I have so many loose ends trailing around me at the moment, that I have cats chasing me wherever I go. It's quite a distraction.

I confess I have become addicted to making lists. At first I began with the solid, important things, like:

1) Rent apartment out
2) Sell car
3) Re-direct mail

(Next to each item is a box, with a specially designated pink pen for that all important tick)

Unfortunately these solid, important things are not easily attainable in the immediate future, and I became quickly frustrated when my special pink pen (with a flamingo on the end, no less) sat unused, unwanted, and unloved in the corner of my desk, glaring at me in that way that only feathered flamingos can.

So, I have since added what I like to think of as "more achieveable" goals, such as:

4) Organise paperwork
5) Clean microwave
6) Book a facial (in case you're questioning this entry, this is technically an important part of my preparation...my skin needs to be conditioned for that harsh climate)

Some of these have already given me that smug satisfaction that results from a big pink tick from my big pink pen.

Yes, I think. I am an achiever.

It has come to my attention, however, that I *may* have got a little carried away with my list-making. Upon confirming my trip, I was all action and enthusiasm, and was thus able to award myself more ticks than a stray dog. However, my positive achievements have begun to dwindle in number, and now I find myself extending "The List" just for the sake of another tick. You may call this procrastinating, a waste of time and paper, or simply ludicrous. I call it positive thinking.

13) Make bed
14) Brush teeth
15) Get dressed
16) Eat

Don't blame me. The flamingo made me.

Insomnia

2006-02-15T16:35:00.000-08:00

As usual the night continues to seduce me with it's fragmented activities, half thoughts, dreamy inspiration, and alcoholic indulgence. I cling to my insomnia, as I cling to my keyboard, hoping to make great discoveries, achieve something fantastic, or research into the wonders of the universe. So far tonight, in my online adventures I have learnt all about the mating habits of common snapping turtles, and found out that DEET (the active ingredient in bug repellant sprays) can have a detrimental effect on neurological systems. I have also smiled at a picture of a monkey smoking a pipe.

All of this has a purpose, I assure you.

I am moving to Thailand soon, and need to fully equip myself for all eventualities, animal or otherwise. So far I have learnt that you should not wave your feet in a Buddhist person's direction, interrupt procreating turtles, or bathe in 100% DEET... and you should never, ever, give tobacco to a monkey.