meanwhile time flies

This Time Last Year

2010-05-13T05:08:00.005-06:00

This time last year I was halfway through my Yoga Teacher Training and loving every minute of it. When I wasn’t doing yoga I was teaching rich honeymooners to dive – but not many of them, as Mexico was in the midst of the Swine Flu tourist-draught.

In May, the year before that, I was teaching diving in the Philippines. The year before that, I had only recently arrived.

The year before that I was back in London, saving hard and flipping coins as to where to go next. Two years before that I was meandering in Costa Rica, running out of money and coming to terms with the fact that I would soon be returning to the UK.

In May of the year before that, I was living in Honduras, diving, bartending and living by the beach. The year before that, in May, I had recently arrived in Guatemala and was falling in love with the same village that I left just a few months ago. The year before that I was in Canada, living in Victoria, taking great long walks along the sea front, with my state-of-the-art, only recently invented MP3 player (which had it’s own bag – it was too big and too heavy to fit in my pocket!)

In May of the year before that, I was living in London with two wonderful friends – good times. One of those lovely women is getting married this summer – I can’t wait!

Early May, of the year before that, I was in Indonesia. A much less travelled Indonesia than it is now. I was travelling with a man who was the most handsome of my previous boyfriends and also the tallest. We went to places where just being white and foreign was enough to make us celebrities. My boyfriend, at 6’4” was also a giant, from whom small children would run screaming. They would come back of course, but run screaming again if he took off his shirt – he had a hairy chest, which is unheard of amongst Asian men. I remember a young man of about 18, who was clearly sick with jealousy, politely asking if he could touch Andrew’s chest. Andrew, somewhat mollified, said yes. The boy touched the hair tentatively, and then nodded approvingly.
“I am going to buy one like that” he said, “I can buy one in Lombok.”
We told him we had been to Lombok and it was lovely, but we hadn’t seen any chest hair.
“Really?” said the boy in surprise “but I have heard, that in Lombok, everybody is a rock star.”

The year before that I was on a fishing boat somewhere in the Gulf of Carpentaria. That year I worked a season on a prawn trawler out of Darwin. One night our nets were attacked by sharks, which didn’t happen often. We pulled the nets in at dawn and in the half-light, as the nets came to the surface, I saw the water churning and frothing with, maybe 60, sharks. It was one of the most extraordinary scenes I’ve ever witnessed. When the nets came out of the water, the few remaining fish fell out – the nets were full of holes. Our skipper was apoplectic with fury and launched into a tirade against sharks, holes, nets and his crew (rather unfairly, I thought). He said the boat was a "useless tub of shit" until those nets were fixed and back in the water, then he went to bed. We five, pulled in the outriggers and hung the nets off them like vast blue curtains. The biggest hole was a metre across. So we set about sewing up the holes – it took us 20 hours – then we got back to work. A few months later I got off that boat fitter, stronger, browner and blonder than I had ever been.

The year before that I was in London, feeling anxious: I was about to embark on my first long-term, solo trip and I was very concerned about having the right stuff. I had decided to buy a new backpack – a proper one. Cheap backpacks, as every traveller knows, are a false economy. The straps cut into your shoulders and then break. I spent most of this month choosing. My final choice was £85, making it the most expensive item I had ever purchased. When I handed over the money I remember thinking that that I would be wearing this bag for a whole year. That trip lasted 2½ years, and I’ve worn that backpack for many, many more.

The year before that I had just broken up with my first love and decided to start saving to go travelling. The year before that I had just moved to London, with my first love, I was learning graphic design and wondering if I would stick at it.

At this time, early May, of the year before that, I was I was doing my Finals at University. My friends were all worrying about jobs, but I did not apply for a single one. I knew what I was going to do – I was going to travel. A week after my exams ended I packed up my student digs and cleared out my bank account. I bought a one-way ticket to Athens and the cheapest backpack I could find. I left with the country with £60 in my pocket. My dad remembers me saying that I would be away for 3 years! My dad privately told my mum not to worry, that I would be back by Christmas! He was right – I was back in November.

During that summer, a fat man in a very expensive white suit approached me in a bar in Paxos. He had four bodyguards with him, all in matching black suits. I was told later, by the owner of the bar, that this man was a Godfather in the Greek Mafia. He offered me a job, on his private island:
“Doing what?” I asked
“I don’t know” he replied “what are you good at?”
I politely declined his offer.
“Don’t you have a sense of adventure?” he said “what are you going to do instead?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said “but I’ll think of something.”

Hanging In There

2010-04-29T06:05:00.007-06:00

Alright! Everybody stop panicking! Relax, rest easy and call off the search parties – oh, you already have. That’s nice. Well you will be relieved to hear, none-the-less, that I am not dead; I have not joined M16 and disappeared into a dark, sticky world of subterfuge and superfudge; I have not sunk into a well of depression and resentment against the world and life in general... oh hang-on! Actually, I have been doing a bit of that.

Since returning to the UK I have been mostly unemployed. Yes, unemployed. Not idling, with is healthy; not lounging, which is delicious; not glorying in an existence unrestricted by the conventions of nine-to-five and pension schemes, which is everything a perfect life should be – oh no – I am just unemployed. As Jerome K Jerome (a role model of mine) pointed out –

“It is impossible to enjoy idling thoroughly unless one has plenty of work to do. Idleness, like kisses, to be sweet must be stolen.”

Being unemployed is pointless and no fun at all. Hence the lack of blog – basically, for the last four months, I have had nothing to say.

Dec to Apr & what I thought of it

December: Still had my tan and the entire trauma of home invasion rattling around in my head. Was ill and didn’t sleep (with the exception of 25-26th of December – both sleeps being booze induced). Mostly wandered around being startled and checking all the doors were locked, repeatedly. Attended Christmas.

January: Glared at the snow. Started job-hunting in a lackadaisical and unfocused manner. During my previous incursions to the UK I have secured work within a few weeks – I assumed it would be the same this time, so I actually wasn’t in too much of a hurry. My first batch of applications met with complete and thunderous silence.

February: Started seeing a Counsellor – she told me I was depressed and needed to take anti-depressants. I insisted I was not depressed, just a bit fed-up and exhausted because I hadn’t slept properly since July. Realised, as I said it, how foolish this sounded. Continued, more earnest applications were met with continued resonating rejection.

March: Diligent and enthusiastic job-hunting: a revised CV and a fancy new portfolio. My first interview! I hated them. Sleeping better, putting on weight, feel like the lights (inside and out) are coming back on. It’s sunny! Slight tan returning. Decide to rethink my plan – maybe I won’t become vampire (sanguinarian, obviously, otherwise what’s the point) after all. Decide to become a T-Shirt designer instead (more on that coming soon – bate your breath people).

April: Some interviews, more rejections, but feeling more positive about the whole business. Still unemployed, very broke. But I am sleeping and no longer feel compelled to check that the house is secured every half-hour. It occurs to me that I used to write a blog...

So that’s it. My next posting will be cheerful, I promise! So... England eh? It’s a funny old place, isn’t it?

Hello London

2010-01-25T08:21:00.005-06:00

I arrived at Marylebone at 4pm, left the station and walked towards Baker Street. Soon I’m on the massive Baker Street intersection where I nearly got run over in 1995. I was deep into a walkman-zone that day: bouncing along with my techno-house on full volume. Daydreaming and oblivious to my surroundings, I nearly stepped out into the on-coming traffic, and would have done, if an elderly gentleman hadn’t stopped me with his umbrella. I was startled and slightly disoriented for a moment.
“Do, excuse me,” he said “ I wasn’t sure... were actually trying to kill yourself?”
I assured him I wasn’t and said thank-you.
“Jolly good” he said cheerfully, the lights changed and we walked on.

I took a left turn onto Paddington Road and then right into Marylebone High Street to see how the rich people shop. Exotic delis, interior design stores and sexy little Boutiques with surprisingly few clothes – even the sandwich bars have chrome fittings. I worked around here back in 2000 – terrible – nowhere to buy lunch.

I reach Wigmore Street – do I turn left here or continue to Oxford Street? My foolish side decides to have a look at London’s busiest street. I last nearly 20 metres before wanting to shake my fists angrily at some stupid French tourists who come to complete stand-still in front of me, without warning. I step to the right to avoid hitting them and an American family crash into me. The French girls toss their Parisian ponytails and flounce away unrepentant. I take a sharp left back to Wigmore Street. There’s a couple standing at the corner:
“Or we could walk down Oxford Street?” says the girl, hopefully.
“No,” retorts the man “it’s just like this street except with thousands of idiots.”
Quite right. I set off down Wigmore enjoying my purposeful stride.

Turn right onto Regents street and take the first left, past a nice little Bar that does great food at lunchtime... now... how do I know that? When have I been there? I am still musing when I pass a familiar doorway. Ah yes, there’s a little Design Studio on the third floor. I can’t remember when I worked there, but my boss was very good looking, very charming and sadly, very married. But he used to take me out for lunch every Friday to that nice little bar around the corner.

Soon I’m back on Oxford Street, the marginally less packed end. I’m looking for a little shop near Tottenham Court Road. This shop does two things: they sell a wide selection of tweed flat-caps and they unlock mobile phones very cheaply. I find it – it’s still there. I peruse the caps while they unlock my phone and then continue on my way.

Charing Cross Road, by John Walsom

Right into Charing Cross Road, past The George, another favourite pub: one of those places where you know you’ll have a great night... so long as you don’t get mugged.

Next, Cambridge Circus, a gladiatorial arena where the game is as follows: Cambridge Circus has an eccentric traffic situation, many roads and many lanes, which follow no discernible system. No matter where you cross, no matter what colour the lights, when you are halfway across the road a vehicle (usually a black cab) will appear from some previously unseen side street and attempt to run you over. The trick, for those in the know, is to find some tourists heading your way and use them as a human shield.

I spotted a couple of suitably substantial Germans and trotted along side them, the woman gave a yelp of surprise when the black cab missed her by mere inches, but we all survived and I’m sure the sprint did them good.

Ahead of me are two narrow streets. I know that one of them will take me direct to Seven Dials and the other will lead me into the murky maze of back streets somewhere behind the London Graphics Centre. I take a guess... and a minute or so later I am lost amongst shadowy streets, dotted with abandoned Art Students. A left, then a right, I kind of recognise that bead shop, and yes! There is Seven Dials straight ahead.

The little pub I used to frequent is still there, but it seems they no longer allow people to take their drinks over the road and onto the mini roundabout to sit on the statue. That’s a shame – negotiating traffic whilst carrying a round of drinks is something everyone should try at least once. I stop for a quick coffee, for old times sake, at the Japanese-inspired basement coffee lounge, full of cool kids with astonishing hairstyles. Then it’s a right turn down Neal Street.

At the bottom of Neal Street, where the M&S is now, there used to be a veritable Palace of all things Kitsch. I don’t remember what the shop was called, but on the front was a row of plastic manikin legs, all doing the Can-Can. At 15 years old I thought that shop was the heighth of cool. M&S is no substitute.

I turn left down to Covent Garden and look for some street theatre. There’s a juggler – he’s not bad, a few good tricks, but nothing my brother couldn’t do. I was about to walk on, when he starts to do the same sequence, but this time juggling meat cleavers. That’s worth a look! Then he repeats the same sequence, with the cleavers, whilst riding a unicycle. For that, I give him some applause. But then he says those dreaded words “a volunteer” and it’s time for me to move along. I stop to listen to some opera singers – is there anywhere else in the world where opera singers busk? Sadly I only hear the end of their set, but they’re excellent.

I pass a Bar I used to visit often in my early 20s. It looks the same and I pop in to use the toilet. In the toilets are two girls applying make-up with industrial trowels.
“You know what” says one, between coats of high-gloss emulsion mascara “sometimes I don’t feel like going out, I’d rather stay in... but y’know, it’s gotta be done, innit?”
Her friend nods sagely, “you know what that is” she replies, “we’re getting old.”
They are no more than 22.

Back on the street, I am pleased to find the shop where I bought my backpack – the one I have been carrying around these last 14 years, is still there and still busy. Finally, I circle past the Ted Baker store (well I can dream can’t I?) before locating the pub where I will be meeting my two, delightful old friends (‘Oi! Less of the old’ I hear them grumble). I haven’t seen them for five years, so I’m looking forward to it.

Safely reunited, after a quick pint, we head over to a French Bistro style Restaurant for dinner. My companions, both of whom have vegetarian wives at home, order meat, followed by meat, with some meat on the side.
“Absolutely” says one friend, “and if they’d let me, I’d have sausages and chocolate for dessert!” As I order the goats cheese, my other friend, sighs in an ‘I’m-so-disappointed-with-you’ kind of way.
“Oh Jane” he says, “you’re such a girl.”

Dinner was excellent, and the company even better. Afterwards we head to a nearby subterranean bar, which serves delicious cocktails for exorbitant prices. Bizarrely, the three of us have a tradition of drinking in subterranean bars. As we settle in with our cocktails, my friend sniggers and points,
“Check out the DJs girlfriend” he says, “have you ever seen anything so bored!”
He’s not wrong. She’s wearing a sparkly top, but she couldn’t be any less sparkly without inducing a coma. She’s hunched and slouched on a little stool, motionless, glassy eyed, tedium and apathy oozing from very pore. Half an hour later my friend says,
“Have you noticed the music has got really good?” We agree and turn to look – oops! It seems the DJs girlfriend... is actually the DJ! And she’s very good. The bloke is now slouched on the stool at her side, looking equally bored and ever so slightly resentful.

It gets late, having said goodbye to one musketeer, I head back with the other to his new place. Safely back at his flat, we sit down for a nice cup of Earl Grey, and I admire their new chandeliers, before retiring to their very comfortable guest room, accompanied by their very friendly cat! How times have changed – back in the day, when we first became friends, I would have been lucky to get a warm beer night-cap, a musky sleeping bag and a bean bag on the living room floor! It seems some things really do get better with age!

And so, there ends my evening in The Big Smoke. Hello London! It’s been a while, but you’re looking well. It was good to see you again.

English Roses

2009-12-02T17:28:00.004-06:00

I was sitting on a bench in the Shopping Centre (here in the UK we shop in Centres, not Mauls.) eating my humble, flat sandwich from a cardboard box. I was wearing shoes – how strange to look down and not see my toes – and a thick coat. How strange. Sitting on either side of me were two overweight women. When I sat down I received disapproving and faintly resentful stares from them both. I am not sure whether it’s my fading tan or my waistline that sets me apart, but I definitely have the feeling I am not “one of them”. Or perhaps that’s all in my head.

Strolling all around us are many more overweight and obese people – there’s more fat people and more elderly people here than I’ve seen in a long time, on the other hand, there’s a noticeable absence of pregnant women.

I see an angry woman marching purposely towards our bench; she is red-cheeked with fury and dragging behind her a young girl of maybe nine or ten years.
“I had to get out of there before I lost it and hit her” she announces to all of us. I wonder which of the women sitting next to me she knows.
“We were waiting there for 20 minutes and then she just pushed past me! Some people!”
I realise, uncomfortably, that she doesn’t know any of us. The woman on my left says
“It’s ever so crowded today.”
“I know! Twenty minutes we waited in that queue! Twenty minutes! And my girl was ever so good!”
The young girl is pulled forward to be displayed to us. Exhibit A: Well-behaved daughter, studies her shoes and blushes.
“It can be difficult when you’ve got children with you” said the woman on my right.
“I told her! I said if you’ve got kids I bet they’re as horrible as you are! That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Exhibit A mumbled and shuffled her feet, “then I thought, I’m so angry I’d better get out of here and calm down.”

The woman on my left shifted in her seat, I think she was wondering whether we should all move up so the furious woman could sit, and calm down – but there isn’t really room. There is a pause as all three of us silently assess the space available and fidget in a polite but unhelpful manner. Having collectively decided not to move up – my neighbours examine the floor and I inspect my remaining half sandwich.

“Well I told her!” said the furious woman. Pause. “I think there’s another bench around the corner,” she added pointedly “but it’s usually full of kids.” Then she took the child by the elbow and marched on her way.

I finished my sandwich and wondered whether I should have joined in the conversation.

Too Much Stuff

2009-11-15T21:59:00.005-06:00

Sorry for the recent lack of blog: it's been a mobile time. I am now back in Mexico - it took five days to get here. Day 1: Antigua-Lanquín = 8.5hrs. I was supposed to leave Lanquín the following morning but I accidentally spent Day 2 in a hammock. Then (Day 3) Lanquín-Flores = 10hrs. Thanks to two Israeli's who decided the whole bus should wait for them while they (a) arrived late (b) strolled off for lunch (c) changed their travellers cheques and (d) organised their Day Trip for the following day. I would like to say that this is unusual behaviour, but I can't. Day 4 saw me cross the border into Belize (and ripped off by Guatemalan Border Guards. I would have complained, but unfortunately I had a dodgy, under-the-table stamp - long story - so I said nothing). Then out of Belize (not ripped off at this border this time - hurrah) into Mexico (ripped off at the border) and to Chetumal. Followed by a "pleasant" wait at Chetumal Bus Station and a night bus all the way to Cancun. Arrived 5am, shattered but with great plans... slept all day.

I've been here for a few days now and all is sorted. Big News! I will be flying back to the UK on Tuesday to try out "real life" for a while. I don't think I'm going to like it - but I am trying to stay positive. Ha! In the last week I have met two people who recently moved back to Europe... and yes, they're both here again now.

Not that I have necessarily given up travelling forever (I don't know yet) - but I know I would like to have a home and also, I am completely broke. I couldn't find work anywhere and my savings have slowly trickled away. Also, if I'm honest, after the tribulations I've had recently, I am feeling tired and defeated. I don't want to sound melodramatic - but I just can't take it anymore! And, of course, I don't have a choice.

From what I'm hearing I am not sure if anything's going to be better in the UK. Sounds like the job market there is pretty awful - so it could be that after a creepy-crawly Summer, followed by the most monumentally crap Autumn ever (by far), I may be heading back to a cold, dark, unemployed Winter. Please, no. If that happens I shall endeavour to assimilate by embracing day-time television and hallucinogenics, equally. I will also eat a lot of cheese and become obese - well darling, that's all the rage in the First World, don't you know.

Right now I am packing. That's not strictly true: right now I am writing a blog, whilst surrounded by numerous looming piles of dive gear, yoga mats, clothes, tea (leaving), sudoku (definitely taking), books... books! O dear, could it be any more harsh? Books or clothes? I can't take them all! I currently own 6 books. I would like to take 5 of them with me, but they won't all fit. I can take 2-3.

They are:

Rough Guide to Mexico (I might need it again... ok, probably not)
Midnights Children (definitely taking - I will sacrifice whatever clothes necessary for this one)
On Chesil Beach
The Reluctant Fundamentalist
The Iliad

I am not sure if I can make this decision (or handle the truth) - please advise?

Cleaning and other considerations

2009-11-01T14:56:00.005-06:00

This week I have been mostly sulking. I am still in Antigua – waiting for the swelling (from the ousted wisdom tooth) to subside sufficiently for the dentist to oust the other wisdom tooth. It’s so nice to have something to look forward to.

I have spent a lot of time in-putting books into Library Thing. That “Words” blog opened up a whole can of worms! But it’s kept me occupied – so for that, I am grateful. Digging out my Book Lists also inspired me to do a little spring clean of my ‘Personal Organiser’. (Remember them? The thing you used to have before your Blackberry – they do much the same job, don’t need batteries, but do require a biro.)

So I emptied out all of the various pockets and spaces.

I threw away:

Several business cards belonging to people I am sure I’ve never met.
Several email addresses from people I am certain I will never contact.
Some passport photos, which should never have seen the light of day.
Numerous scraps of paper with “To Do” Lists on them – nearly all of which were undone.

I kept:

A membership card for “Perama Travel – All Over Indonesia!” Which expired in 1998.
A bus ticket from Luang Prabang to Vang Vieng (Laos) dated my birthday, 1999.
A Donor Card.
An “I do something amazing, I give blood” Card (although I haven’t, for a long time – but perhaps this will inspire me.)
A London Underground map
Business Cards for a Photographer in Sussex, an Italian Hair Stylist in Mexico and a handsome man in the Philippines (you never know).
A photograph of my parents
A newspaper clipping from November 2000 – which made me very happy and looks like this:

And

The Proust Questionnaire

I cut this out from a magazine several years ago, with the intention is doing something with it... filling it in I suppose. These days there are so many imitators knocking around on Facebook and the like, that I have got truly sick and tired of Questionnaires. Most of them are so banal – “what time did you get up this morning? Who is most likely to reply to this questionnaire?” Yawn! But this one is actually quite interesting. It supposedly gets to the very heart of an individual. Maybe it does. Kate Winslet apparently uses it when developing a new role.

Here are the questions:

Your favourite virtue;
Your favourite qualities in a man;
Your favourite qualities in a woman;
Your biggest flaw;
Your favourite occupation;
Your chief characteristic;
Your idea of happiness;
Your idea of misery;
Your favourite colour and flower;
If not yourself, who would you be?
Where would you like to live?
Your favourite prose authors;
Your favourite poets;
Your favourite painters and composers;
Your favourite heroes in real life;
Your favourite heroines in real life;
Your favourite heroes in fiction;
Your favourite heroines in fiction;
Your favourite food and drink;
Your favourite names;
Your Pet Aversion;
What characters in history do you most dislike?
What is your present state of mind?
For what fault do you have the most toleration?
Your favourite motto;
How would you like to die?

So I did finally complete it. It concerned me how many flaws I could think of and how few characteristics – none in fact. I don’t know what my characteristics are – I don’t think I have any. Maybe glibness. Is that a characteristic? Facetiousness? My flaws, on the other hand, had to be both long and short-listed.

It saddened me that my favourite novelists, poets, composers and painters were all men. Especially having recently read ‘Unless’ in which she blames her daughters descent into depression on the marginalisation of women in the Media. Has this been truly ingrained in me? Or are there (dare I say it) simply less creative women than men? Mind you, all my most hated characters from history were also men (book burners, all).

Even sadder, I realised that I have absolutely no heroes or heroines in real life – but many from fiction. Naming my fictional hero/ines was easy! (Frodo Baggins, Ford Prefect, Levin, Eowyn, Beatrice and Lessa – in case you were wondering). But people in real life are so tainted – how can anyone be so above reproach that is possible to feel nothing but admiration for them? Even after much consideration, I can think of no one. I did, in the end, come up with three names, but I am not completely happy to pronounce them ‘heroes’. (Alexander the Great, Elizabeth I and Emmiline Pankhurst). Does this reflect on me? Am I being realistic or too cynical?

And how would I like to die? Healthy, of course.

I’ve posted my full answers as a comment. Feel free to leave your own – yes, I am interested! Mr Botogol recently mused that every blog gets the readers it deserves... so I have no doubt that you are a sensitive, noble and discerning bunch!

Deconstructing Monty

2009-10-25T13:04:00.004-06:00

It is the nature of the world that all things must change, but there has been one particular development over the last few years that is causing me some considerable concern. Ladies and gentleman, have you noticed that sandwiches are getting fatter?

The sandwich was famously named after John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich (how sad that they didn’t end up being known as Geralds – as Blackadder mis-predicted – or indeed Montys. One can’t help thinking that daily life would be a little richer if lunch consisted of a nice cheese & tomato monty.)

Until writing this blog, I was under the impression that the Earl of Sandwich invented sandwiches so his troops could eat whilst marching. What kind of cold-hearted scoundrel won’t let his men sit down for lunch? However, I did my homework and it seems Montagu didn’t invent the sandwich – he just liked them. The Earl was actually an entirely different kind of scoundrel – he was an incorrigible gambler. He ordered his meat served between two slices of bread so he could eat, without having to leave the gaming table or getting his hands (and his cards) greasy. It seems he was also a bit of a trendsetter since, after he ate them, everyone else asked for “one like Sandwich”. Et voila y mange tout – the cult of the Sandwich was born.

In the years following, the sandwich has become a touchstone of modern life: even now, if one strolls the streets (of the West) at around 1pm, one can see numerous office workers clutching their little bread-wrapped parcels of goodness.

In the last few years, as Western Society’s taste for novelty has grown, the sandwich (and everything else) has suffered many mutations. First we had those ‘open sandwiches’ – which, as we all know, is just a posh way of saying ‘on toast’. (Anyone for a baked bean, toasted open sandwich?) Around the same time, from across the Atlantic, came the ridiculous ‘Club’. I am not a fan. I ask you? Who needs three slices of bread in their sandwich? Surely the purpose of the bread is to contain the filling – this third, central slice is both redundant and wasteful. More importantly, it set a precedent for a new thickness of sandwich.

Not long before I left England last time, one major sandwich retailer had started selling Breadless Sandwiches. I was always under the impression these were called ‘Salads’ – but it’s all about the branding I suppose.

However, in general the evolution of the sandwich has resulted in bigger, over filled, thicker cut and overall: much, much fatter sandwiches. This causes a problem for me. Now, after careful study of my fellow human beings, I don’t believe that I have an especially small mouth. It’s seems to be of an average size – so I cannot believe I am alone in finding that most sandwiches I order these days are too big to bite!

So how are you supposed to eat them? I can see only two options:

You squash them flatter until you can get your mouth around it.

Depending on your sandwich filling, this is problematic because some items (avocado is especially bad for this) get squeezed out the side and fall, hopefully but annoyingly, on your lap or, even more annoyingly, but more usually, on the floor. Also, the bread turns into that funny, doughy, squashed breadiness type thingy, which just isn’t right.
You take them apart.

But then you’re not eating a sandwich! Once you deconstruct your monty, you can no longer pick it up – and then, well... really... what’s the point? Also, the real beauty of a sandwich is the mixture of flavours – for example, the cheese, tomato, mustard & mayonnaise culinary opus. If you are obliged to destroy your sandwich before you can enjoy it – do you then attempt to reconstruct the combination of flavours on your fork? But then you’re eating a sandwich with a knife and fork, and that’s just silly.

This sandwich situation is a worry, and where will it end? Before long we’ll be eating ordinary salads with bread on the side – and then we might as well be French (not that’s there’s anything wrong with being French of course ;-)

Surely, if a sandwich-maker wants to make their sandwiches bigger or more substantial it would be wiser to bake larger loaves and make the sandwich wider, rather than fatter? Or give us an extra slice of bread and make a halfie?

Here ye! Restaurants, cafes and humble sandwich shops – hear my plea! I want to be able to pick up my sandwich and eat it! I might want to march with it! I might even want to peruse the gaming tables with it! Let’s get back to basics and start serving monties that Sandwich would be proud of.

In the last nine days I have had five appointments with the dentist. Various parts of my mouth have been numb, swollen, painful or a combination of all three, all week. I’ve had one wisdom tooth out – (one more to follow) it had to be smashed up before it would come out. Boo. I haven’t been eating much. But eating, and the ease thereof, has been much on my mind.

I have to eat soft food – the other day, I thought a cheese sandwich might be appropriate (soft bread, of course, no crusts) – but even though this particular sandwich wasn’t especially fat by modern standards, it was still more than my poor jaw could handle. I had to deconstruct it, and in doing so I realised that there is no better example of ‘the whole being far greater than the sum of its parts’ than the cheese sandwich. I love cheese, and I enjoy lettuce, tomato and mustard. But whilst a cheese sandwich is one of favourite vittles, the components of a cheese sandwich, eaten separately, are a bit rubbish (except the actual cheese, of course). Hence this blog.

My dentist is very professional, and a nice, apologetic chap. He apologises after every appointment! As I left on Thursday he said, “sorry... for, you know, everything”
“For pulling my tooth out?”
“Well... yes”
“Or the dental work in general?”
“Well... yes. Sorry.”
“That’s alright, it is why I’m here!” He sighed, in an ‘it-hurts-me-more-than-it’s-hurts-you’ kind of way.
“I made another appointment for you on Monday – is that ok? Sorry. The other side will probably be easier... well... definitely quicker!”
And I replied: “Dentist, do not try to frighten me as if I were some feeble child or woman without knowledge of war’s work. No, I know about fighting and the killing of men well enough. I know how to swing the tan ox-hide of my shield to the right, I know how to swing it to the left – that I call true shield fighting. I know how to charge into the fury of speeding chariots. I know the steps of Ares’ deadly dance in the close fighting. But on your guard now – great man that you are, I do not want to hit you with a sneaking shot, with an eye for my chance, but in an open fight, like this, if this strikes home...”

Okay, I didn’t say that. But The Iliad is ever so good, by the way!

Further Reading

While researching this delicious subject I discovered that there exists a British Sandwich Association (of course there does) whose aims include: “To promote excellence and innovation in sandwich making.” They also have a whole page of Recipes for Cheese Sandwiches, which is as wonderful as it is unbelievable.

Finally, for some truly marvellous musings on the psychology of sandwiches (yes, really) you must read this: The Secret Language of Sandwiches.

“Word, words, words”

2009-10-19T18:49:00.002-06:00

I am a voracious reader. You don’t have to take my word for it – I keep a list of every book I read, so you can decide for yourself: In 2008, I read a total of 41 books; in 2007, a meaningful 42. So far, 2009 has been a big year – I have already read 45 books. Voracious? I would say so. As a traveller, being a voracious reader can be quite hard work. I obviously can’t afford to buy books. Instead I exchange them, sometimes with other travellers, but more often at Book Exchanges – which are found in Hostels, Book Stores, Cafés and occasionally, even Dive Shops.

Frequently, my first mission in any new town is to locate my next book. I could write a Guide Book on books, and how to locate them. Sometimes I am lucky and find excellent Book Exchanges with an abundance of interesting and intriguing titles to choose from. Sometimes I seem to be following in the footsteps of peasants, and I end up with nothing but light romance and ‘Airport Blockbusters’.

However, when it comes to the crunch, I would rather read anything, than nothing, so sometimes I read truly terrible books. Low points this year have included ‘Wedding Season’ by Darcy Cooper (the heroine cancelled her own – did I care? Hell no) and the entirely unmemorable ‘False Memory’ by Dean Koontz (I have no memory of what it was about – but it’s on the list, so I must have read it.) Although, the fact that I will read anything does also lead me to some good books which I probably wouldn’t have chosen: ‘Killing Pablo’ by Mark Bowden, which was about the pursuit of Pablo Escobar, was a surprisingly good read. ‘Reminiscences of the Cuban War’ by that well-known, homicidal nutcase, Che Guevara, insured I would never, ever be tempted to wear one of those naff t-shirts adorned with his face. And I would strongly advise anyone who owns one of those t-shirts to read this memoir and see if you can justify the many senseless murders he proudly confesses to.

A few years ago, in the absence of anything better, I read a book called 'Chasing Copernicus' by a bloke who was tracking down all the ‘First Editions’ of Copernicus’s masterwork, ‘On the Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres’, and trying to establish if anyone had actually read it! It seems Isaac Newton wrote notes in the margin of his copy (at Cambridge) – so he did his homework. But the author found several copies in which the pages had yet to be cut! His conclusion was that ‘Revolutions’, although containing an incredibly exciting theorem, is actually a work of staggering monotony which almost no one has read – preferring instead to get the gist of it from Isaac Newton or other, more available, science geeks at dinner parties. Sadly the same could be said of his own book.

But, in the wonderful world of literature, there are always more high points than low. This year’s notable highlights have included ‘The Book of Laughter and Forgetting’ by Milan Kundera (if I ever am able to complete a novel, I would like it to be just like this one); ‘We Were The Mulvaneys’ by Joyce Carol Oates and ‘Daughter of Fortune’ by Isabel Allende. All wonderful.

I never look for ‘Classics’ (by ‘classic’, I mean a timeless works of genius, rather than a book that necessarily belongs to the canon of literature – although the two are often the same) because I had an insight at University, which terrified me. In my second year, as instructed, I dutifully read all (truthfully? Ok, most) of Shakespeare’s Plays*, but it was only when I had finished them that I realised, with profound sadness, that I will never again, in my life, read a Shakespeare Play for the first time (unless someone finds 'Cardenio' – you never know...).

It occurred to me then, that if I kept devouring the Classics at my usual pace, then it was possible that by the time I was 60 or so, I might have read them all! “The horror! The horror!” And then what would I do until I died? Of course, new Classics will always be written. And they are joyous because you often don’t know they’re a work incomparable greatness until you finish them. That is a different experience (most recently ‘Never Let Me Go’ by Kazuo Ishiguro was a unexpected pleasure). But nothing can compare to that thrill, the excitement, the relish of sitting down and opening the first page of ‘Anna Karenina’ or ‘Don Quixote’ and knowing you are about to bring a sublime creation into your mind.

So I made a decision – that I would never actively look for these great books. Instead, I would patiently wait for them. I know that sooner or later they will all cross my path – and I will read them, when I am meant to read them, during the course of my life.

Despite knowing without any doubt, that it would inevitably become one of my most beloved books – I managed to restrain myself from reading ‘Lord of the Rings’ until I was 26. And then, even as I read it, and delighted at every twist and turn in the story, I also felt that inescapable sadness that I would never be delighted in this way, by this story, ever again.

I waited years before stumbling across ‘War and Peace’, and nearly cracked and bought it so many times. But in the end it was here, in Antigua, six years ago, that I came across it in a Café. I read it whilst visiting Lago Atitlan, in the shadow of a volcano.

This morning, I noticed a single shelf of dusty old paperbacks in the corridor of my hostel. Out of habit, I glanced over, although I am still halfway through my current read... and there it was, patiently waiting for me – tatty, battered, but still in one piece – ‘The Iliad’.

I am very excited! This week I am mostly going to the dentist (a fitting end to a truly crap summer) and The Iliad seems to me to be an appropriate accompaniment!

* Except for five, which I started, but couldn’t finish because, they were tedious! Don’t make that face! He wrote 36 Plays; you can’t seriously expect them all to be brilliant!

Raining Sunglasses

2009-10-12T18:58:00.008-06:00

I have broken my last three pairs of sunglasses in the same way: the sunglasses are on my face where they belong – I push them up, onto the top of my head because the sun’s momentarily gone in or I go indoors – then a passing bird/tall building/signpost or similar, causes me to look up, and the sunglasses clatter to the ground behind me, cracking the frames and/or breaking the lenses.

“If you’ve done that three times – why haven’t you learnt by now?” I hear you ask.
And to you, I retort “yeah, well... no one likes a smart arse you know! And I hear your mother’s so fat she fell in love and broke it.”*

Today I was looking for the Papelaría – to be specific I was looking at shop signs to find the Papelaría (no, you don’t get any points for guessing what’s coming and no, don’t skip ahead to the next paragraph!) when the sun passed behind a cloud, I pushed my sunglasses onto my head and – wait! Is that the sign? Am I right next to it? Is the sign right above my head? And (yes, you guessed it) CRASH, with a resounding clatter my sunglasses tumbled from my head, fell a full 5 feet and very nearly 6 inches (take note young Tilda) to the ground, bounced off the kerb and landed, with a miserable death rattle, in the gutter.

NoooOOOooooo! They were almost new! They never even got to leave the country! Surely even a humble pair of sunglasses should be able to see Mexico before they die? Where is the justice in that?

But wait! Hang on – I picked them up and they were still in one piece! I was surprised to find that the lenses were still intact. I made a careful inspection looking for cracks – there were none! A small scratch on the corner – but I didn’t get where I am today by not wearing sunglasses with a small scratch on the corner.

Amazed and happy, I placed my sunglasses back onto my face and... and... (wait for it) they even fit better! It’s true!

Further evidence that my luck is changing? Oh yes, I think so. Still haven’t got a job, or a home, or a clue. But hey – have sunglasses, will travel.

*Thought Yo Mama jokes were modern? And American? Me too! But apparently Shakespeare got there first! Act IV, Scene II of Titus Andronicus:

Demetrius: "Villain, what hast thou done?"
Aaron: "That which thou canst not undo."
Chiron: "Thou hast undone our mother."
Aaron: "Villain, I have done thy mother."

A Lucky Escape

2009-10-07T15:49:00.004-06:00

Walk into any backpacker hostel and you can always spot the solo travellers. They generally send out loud vibes, and they fit into one of two categories:

“Don’t talk to me, I am doing my own thing and I’m fine” or,
“I am so bored, please talk to me – someone – anyone!”

So far, since arriving in Antigua I have been mostly in the first category. However I have noticed a woman, mooching around the place, who is most definitely in the second category. I had previously made a mental note, that if I do start to get bored with my own company, then this is someone who I could chat to.

This afternoon I had a design job to do, so I found myself a quiet spot on the roof terrace and settled down to work. I saw my potential friend hanging around, looking bored, when another solo traveller (from Category 2) offered her a cup of tea. That was two hours ago. They are sitting in the kitchen, which is directly behind me – so I can’t help but eavesdrop! And in the last two hours, I swear, she hasn’t paused for breath once. During the last two hours her companion has managed to contribute the following to the conversation: “yes” (x 20*), “really” (x 10*) and “is that so” (twice). That is all.

Furthermore, this woman appears to be one of the most self-important, boorish and staggeringly tedious people I have ever had the misfortune to eavesdrop upon. I don’t need to be able to see them, to hear the pain in her companions’ occasional replies.

Just think: I might have said hello to her, and her long-suffering companion could have been me! It seems my luck may have changed: this time, I had a lucky escape!

* Approximate figures.

The Book of Jane

2009-10-02T12:29:00.004-06:00

Well it’s been an interesting and challenging month. I left Lanquín (of course) and headed down to the coast to see some friends.

The first week was very strange: I wasn’t sleeping hardly at all and kept getting the shakes and crying. I would find myself in the street and have no memory of where I was going. One morning I started my usual yoga practice and then I was sitting at my desk. Bizarrely, I am not sure when I stopped doing yoga and sat down – it was all quite unnerving. I decided to look up my symptoms on the internet and it seems I was suffering from Post Traumatic Shock. Which is odd, because I’ve never been entirely convinced that shock, as a condition, existed. I have always been of the opinion that one should simply pull oneself together. Luckily, I didn’t have Housemaids Knee.

I was staying in a small Garifuna town, where the elderly Garifuna women dress as if they are at a Doris Day Convention – lots of colouful outfits with full skirts and big collars and everyone wears a hat. I felt jealous and wanted a hat to fit in a little. But there’s a hat mystery in Livingston: everyone wears splendid hats, but no-one sells hats (other than nasty baseball caps). Hmmmm.

So lacking a hat, in a brave attempt to assimilate with the local community I got Dengue Fever instead. You would think, that after my experiences with knives and ski masks, things would have to get better wouldn’t you?! Ha!

Readers, if you can get through the whole of your life without getting Dengue Fever I would strongly advise that you do so. Dengue Fever sucks big time. Permanent exhaustion, aching all over, cold sweats and for the coup-de-grace, I came up in a rash that covered my arms, torso and lower legs, and which itched – but more than itched – it was like pins and needles! Arrrrgggghhh! Fortunately I was too weak to actually tear my skin off.

A couple of days ago the Dengue started to clear up. I began to make plans for the future... I was sitting in my room, listening to a deafening thunder & lightning storm, when a very bright light shot through the window and struck my hand, causing a shock that threw me out of my chair onto the floor.

Was I really struck by lightning?! Surely not! But what else could it have been?

Seriously, this is getting ridiculous! If I come up in boils next week – then I take it all back, I will humbly apologise to God and concede that he does exist. Good job I haven’t got a first born to sacrifice. Although, perhaps my eldest niece should go into hiding just in case.

I am now in Antigua, a beautiful old Colonial town in the south. I love it here. I am eating good food (cheese! REAL cheese!), strolling the picturesque streets and wondering what horrible torment will befall me next. I am keeping an eye out for falling pianos.

I am going to head further south in a few days to look for work. I’ll keep you posted.

Monday Night-Tuesday Morning 1.30am

2009-08-28T14:37:00.006-06:00

About five weeks ago our house was burgled. They didn’t get inside; they reached through the windows and grabbed what ever they could. Their prize for the night was M’s bag with cash, cards and some keys.

We changed the lock for the front door and thought that was that. But on Saturday evening we were burgled again, only this time they had keys, so they got inside (all the doors were secure). They took a lot of stuff from me, and only from me. Perhaps they got in through my balcony so mine was the first room they came to. Perhaps they went to straight to my room. Either way they took an External Hard drive with a year worth of work, photos, artwork, writing and the rest. I am still coming to terms with that. They also took small electronic stuff – my card reader, MP3 player and some leads and spare batteries. Plus some jewellery and a few other things. Suffice to say, I was not happy.

Three, sometimes four, people live here and both robberies happened at the exact time that all of us were out. Which suggests they have been watching us, enough to know our routines. Last night I didn’t feel comfortable walking up the road after dark. I live on a very dark, very quiet street, and it occurred to me that someone watching would know I have a laptop. They now know I don’t leave it in the house – it doesn’t take much to guess what’s in the laptop-sized backpack that I am never seen without.

So tonight, I decided not to walk up the road, but to stay home. I was relaxing on the terrace, listening to music, when... I don’t know, something made me look round. I saw something-someone next to the garage door, two metres behind me. It was all very quick... I didn’t know what was happening, I vaguely thought it was someone looking for my house-mate, but I knew it wasn’t right. I jumped out of my hammock and stepped toward them, which activated the security light on the corner of the terrace.

The next few moments are vivid in my mind. My step forward illuminated two men, wearing home-made ski masks and dark clothing, coming towards me with knives. The knife of the one in front looked like a prison weapon – the handle had frayed cloth wrapped around it.

I read somewhere that to be a victim, you must behave like a victim. I am simplifying of course, but you get the idea. This article suggested that when under threat, like this, you should be loud and aggressive. You must show no fear, as if you were dealing with a big, unknown dog.

When I opened my mouth to start shouting, I thought for a half-second that I might sob or vomit instead, but then I heard shouting and knew it was me. They both jumped. I got louder, then something strange happened: it must have been the combination of adrenalin and fear, but I became genuinely furious. The fury took hold of me, in fact I was more than furious – I was enraged. So now I’m really shouting at them, cursing them and threatening them. I advanced on the one in front, yelling into his face and they both backed away. Then they were running away and I was standing on the very edge of the terrace shouting curses and outrage into the night. I think, by then, I might have actually been shaking my fists.

I ran into the house and went straight for M’s machete. How did I know where it was? Thinking back, I remember seeing it last month when I was putting some clean blankets away in the wardrobe – The Blue Blanket actually – which is becoming a recurring ‘special guest’ in the outside-jane show), but I didn’t think I really took note of it, I just saw it.

None-the-less, I knew exactly where it was earlier tonight... but what did I think I was going to do with it? I stormed outside and did some more shouting. I think I could easily pass my Vogon Flight Officer exams now.

Then the fear hit me like a punch in the chest and I realised I needed to be inside the house right now. I grabbed my laptop and ran inside, locking myself in – hands suddenly useless and fumbling with the lock. Did I lock the machete outside?! You stupid bi... No! It’s here by my foot. Is that a noise? A shadow? Jesus, they had fucking ski masks? What now? Phone! I have a phone!

Can you believe, after nearly two months, yesterday I finally capitulated and bought a new phone. Yesterday. I already have two phones, but they won’t work with Guatemalan sim cards. I have been looking for somewhere that ‘unlocks’ phones. Then yesterday I gave up and bought a new one. Yesterday.

I phoned my house-mate. No answer. He’s the manager of a restaurant and it was Happy Hour. With shaking hands, I struggled to send the following text:

“2 men in ski masks at the house. I yelled and they ran. But am sacred. Please call police.”

I rang again. I remembered I have M’s number too. I sent him the same text. He called me straight back. From there it got better – he started ringing everybody.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m downstairs” I was pacing the floors, machete in hand.
“Go upstairs, you can close the door and stand on it” My room is an attic and I have ‘a door in the floor’. He was right, it’s the safest place, but thinking that scared me all over again. I went upstairs and stayed on the phone with M and his girlfriend until the Calvary arrived: Three Policeman, one policewoman, both house-mates, the restaurant night guards, his friends, the kitchen matriarch, and a customer from the restaurant who was brought along because he’s bilingual (fantastic – he translated for me, so I could talk to the police,) and maybe more! There were lots of people, a whole house full of people. People everywhere; people with lights; people searching the bushes; shadows in the bushes and everyone asking me the same questions. Too many people.

Finally everyone left, and two security guys came to watch the house for tonight. House-mate #2 and I finally sat down (I hadn’t sat down since I jumped out of the hammock earlier) and stared at each other in surprise.
“This is just crazy,” he said. And it is.

Fatigue.

Now, it’s 1.30am I’m exhausted, but still wide-awake. So once again, in a crisis, I am opting to write about it. Do I live my own life vicariously through this blog? Do I distance myself, and detach, by externalising personal events into a ‘story’? Do I suppress my emotion by focusing instead, on finding the correct vocabulary? The most appropriate tone? Suitable jokes?

So what next? I love this place, I really do. I spoke with my Dad on skype earlier this week; I did the usual thing of turning the computer around so he could see where I was.
“It looks like an Impressionist painting,” he said.
He’s exactly right; it has that same idyllic colour scheme, warm light and peacefulness. Sometimes in the morning, I finish my yoga practice just as the mist is lifting off the mountains – soft light and long shadows falling across verdant hills – and I think it’s so beautiful here it takes my breath away. Except two men in ski masks threatened me with knives this evening.

So I think I’m going to have to leave. How very, very sad. What a truly terrible ending to a really rubbish week. But I can’t live somewhere where I can’t walk home alone, or stay home and relax for an evening. They came at 9.15pm. Usually I get home just before 9pm and the earliest my house-mates are home is about 10pm. So I am sure they knew I would be there, and be alone. I think they’re after the laptop – so sooner or later they will try to rob me again. And you only have 'the element of surprise' once.

I realise “these things happen” and you shouldn’t look for sense or order where, perhaps there is none... but I can’t help feeling that I’m being tested. It seems to be one damn thing after another in this Eden. First the spiders! Perhaps you wouldn’t believe it from reading these blogs, but I am terrified of spiders! I’m as jumpy as hell in this house. So I try to make light of it, to see the ridiculous side of the situation and of myself. But there comes a point when you run out of jokes. Then I get my first scorpion sting! That was only two weeks ago! For nearly two weeks we have no running water... and then the house floods. Two burglaries, then two blokes in ski masks. The Universe is coming at me from all angles and I’m not sure whether I’m bobbing or drowning.

So what now?

Friday Morning

The came again on Wednesday night. This time I didn’t see anything, I was inside the house. But the Night Watchman saw the security light go on, when he went to look he saw someone running down towards the river. Upon investigation, he also found a space in the bushes where someone had been sitting, presumably watching the house. The police came back and looked around, but he was long gone. It’s so easy to disappear in this environment, unless they’re caught red-handed, they won’t be caught.

Since Monday I’m not really sleeping and I’m very jumpy. I still feel kind of ‘surprised’ by the whole thing. It feels very personal – either they’re after the laptop or me. I have wondered whether I have offended someone without realising? But I can’t think when. People say ‘the lads’ around here must know who it is... so I also wonder whether ‘the lads’ are laughing at these guys for getting scared off by an unarmed, lone woman. This is Latin America, the home of Machismo, if they feel I’ve ‘made fools’ of them...

If they’re stupid enough to stick to the same pattern – Saturday, Monday, Wednesday – maybe they’ll come again tonight? We have lots of people staying the house now – some of whom are hoping they do come back.

I will leave very soon – just getting a plan. Fatigue.

Beauties & Beasties

2009-08-22T10:02:00.012-06:00

This fella deserves a blog all of his own really. What IS IT?! (Answers on a postcard please). The photos don't do him justice - the wings were really quite beautiful - pale blue with gold ridges and silvery flecks, and so delicate. Then there's this monstrous head... with pinchers! Too weird. He stayed in the bathroom for a few days, but he's left now.

On the plus side, this rather lovely butterfly hung out and posed for photos yesterday. My housemate (human) has quite a way with butterflies, as you can see!

I don't know what the caterpillar, shown here, will turn in to! But isn't he cute! He was about 1 inch long and very fluffy.

Also, I think there was a Preying Mantis in the kitchen yesterday. Pictures to follow... my housemate (human) thinks this house may actually be an independent, fully functioning Ecosystem. One day people will come here to study. Just as Jerome anticipates medics completing their training solely on him, so Biologists and Zoologists will, one day, write Theses on my bathroom.

The house flooded yesterday - we've had almost no running water all week and then, overnight, a flood! I woke up to three indignant cats, perched in a row on the sofa, saying -
"Have you seen the state of this house? Are you responsible for this? No! Of course I don't know where the 'bloody mop' is! I'm a CAT!
The woman's a fool, I'm telling you. She can't even feed us without getting herself stung. You just can't get the staff these days..."

I swept the water out, but I suspect it will return. The immediate result is that the indoor frog population has dramatically increased.

You don't say!

2009-08-15T10:59:00.008-06:00

So yeah, Tuesday was a rather scary evening! Thanks so much for all the kind comments – I am absolutely fine. That night, the doctor assured me there are no scorpions in Guatemala that can kill you (there are in Mexico - but apparently those ones aren't seen here), but, of course, it would have been good to know that before I was stung!

Later that evening it got even stranger - I could actually feel the poison spreading into the shoulder and then down into my chest and ribs. I worried about that - but it didn't affect my breathing. Also, about 4 hours after the sting my whole mouth went numb and my lips started to tingle (like pins & needles). I wondered whether my tongue would swell up and maybe that's why the Mayans (a few people) told me I should cut my tongue? But nothing else happened, just numbness. And no, I didn't cut my tongue with a machete! Although the night-watchman offered to do it for me - with a foot-long cutlass! Can you imagine!

I had a look on the internet to see if I could find out more about tongue-cutting for scorpion stings, but there is no mention of it. This morning I asked some Mayan friends here, and they tell me that cutting the tongue is very old-fashioned. No, you need to take a machete and bite the blade, three times, as hard as you can. Or, if you can catch the scorpion, you can cut the tail off (and throw that away carefully) and then take the liquid that comes out of the body and rub it onto the sting. Or, drink some hot, very strong, black coffee. I told them that I had drunk beer, they gave that some consideration and said yes, they thought beer was also good.

The next morning my arm just felt dead. Remember when you were a kid and someone (in my case, one of my dear brothers!) would give you a 'dead arm' by punching your shoulder? Well, it felt like that - stiff and weak. It eased off during the day - I think it was a full 24 hours before I was fine again.

That evening I was taking a coffee cup off the shelf and what should be behind it? Uh-oh! Another scorpion! I was glad that I didn't feel freaked out or scared – I’m already jumpy enough with the spiders. But I certainly have gained a healthy respect for the little bastards! I'm not walking around barefoot in the dark any more. And I'm being more careful about picking things up, etc. Not an experience I want to repeat.

Strangely, what really scared me at the time was that I would pass-out on the road. There are no street lights here (no real streets - my 'street' is a mud track) and it's pitch black at night. So if I’d passed out in the middle of the road, the chances of getting run over would have been very high. And that's what was really worrying me! Why I should be more scared of getting run-over than dying of scorpion poison, I don't know. Perhaps getting run over is an idea that my brain could more readily accept? Interesting.

Of course now people want to share their 'scorpion stories' with me: one poor chap got stung twice on the leg when he put his trousers on and found one inside. Another guy was walking barefoot through the grass and trod on one. A girl got stung on the hand, feeling around for the light switch in the dark... When I say I was stung whilst feeding the cats, a few people have said how awful that I was stung while doing a good deed! Aren't people funny!

Really? Are you sure?

2009-08-11T20:35:00.003-06:00

They made me laugh out loud. It’s so strange how your evening can change course so rapidly, so unexpectedly. I went inside to get my keys and the cats looked at me with such yearning and angst that I thought, ‘ah, poor little things – I better feed them before I go’.

It was a new bag of cat food and as I took it out of the box, I worried about spiders. I lifted it very tentatively – ready to jump if something black and hairy appeared. When nothing did I felt quite relieved, and that was when I picked up the bag properly and the black scorpion hidden in the fold stung me on the soft skin between my thumb and first finger.

The first moment of pain was like a flash of light. I think I actually saw a flash of light. I did have the good sense to look to see what it was. Then I just swore loudly. It’s a shock! I mean obviously it’s a shock. But I mean really – I was very, very surprised by just how much it actually hurt.

I ran to the sink and plunged my hand into the cold water and then I just stood there. Swearing occasionally and then stopping to listen to the strange silence, only broken by the heartless cats trying to break in to the bag of cat food that I’d dropped on the floor.

Upon seeing the scorpion I had, of course, realised that I was about to experience an extortionate amount of pain. That’s all anyone ever says about scorpions – that you couldn’t imagine just how much it hurts. And you really can’t. It’s quite surreal. I stood there, observing myself and found I couldn’t fathom how anything could hurt quite this much. There are moments of clarity (and loud, fierce, bitter obscenities) then moments of, “really? Are you sure? This can't be real? Perhaps I’m going to wake up now?”

Then I started to think. How serious is a scorpion sting? Am I going to pass out soon? Because my house-mates (the human ones) won’t be home for hours. The clinic is 15 minutes away – do I need to leave now? What is going to happen when I take my hand out of this cold water? Can it, could it, actually hurt even worse that this? Is my arm going numb? Can I still move my hand? (I could – but didn’t do that again for a while – moving it hurts a lot more.)

I realised that I knew nothing about how bad or dangerous the scorpions are around here. I wondered how I could be so stupid to not ask something like that before now. I realised that I had to leave the house right now.

I didn't cry until I was outside and trying to get my shoes on - tieing my laces was agony. But I got it back together and soon I found my self stumbling up the road in the dark, holding my hand aloft like a torch. Self-control. It’s all about self-control. ‘Pain is just a feeling’ I kept repeating those words. I'm screaming inside. But I'm still walking, so I'm fine. Its just pain. Excruciating, unfathomable pain, washing over me like giant pacific waves. By the time I got to the first house I was drenched in cold sweat. I was quite surprised when I realised this, and quite alarmed when I realised I was light-headed.

I saw my neighbour in his yard. “Conoce escorpiones?” I asked called out (Do you know scorpions?)
“What?” he replied, walking over “what scorpion?”
“A small black scorpion” I replied, “It is dangerous? I need a doctor?”
He shone a light in my face “where? When?”
“About 10 minutes ago, here” I showed him my hand.
He said I needed a tourniquet; it took a while for me to understand that. He said I needed a machete. I mimed chopping my hand off and laughed. He smiled grimly and mimed cutting my tongue. I asked him “will I be ok?” I realised my tee shirt was soaked through with sweat. And it’s cold tonight. He said I should go to the clinic now. I left.

So I found myself stumbling down the road, light headed, sweating, my hair band tied tightly around my wrist, feeling bewildered and frankly amazed by how much pain I was in.

The doctor at the clinic said I would be fine. He offered anaesthetic. I asked “do I need it?” (I don’t use anaesthetics unless it’s an emergency – I had too many as a child). He said I didn’t actually need it. He told me the pain would wear off in a few hours. So I walked back to the bar.

Still drenched, still feeling quite surreal. They looked startled when I walked into the bar. “I’ve just been stung by a scorpion” I announced.
“Wow” said the bartender “you must be in so much pain”
“Yes” I said, choking back tears. I actually put my hand over my mouth and had to turn away for a second. I am proud to say I am not a woman who cries in public. “A beer please”

And so here I am, several beers and 2 hours later, sitting upstairs in the bar, letting the pain sweep through me like a warm summer breeze. It’s definitely not as bad as it was. Although I still can’t move my hand without great swathes of pain engulfing my head. It still feels quite surreal. I am typing this with one hand and trying to remember whether I locked the front door. Bizarrely, I am pretty sure I fed the cats before I left. Did I really do that? I think I did. The beer is certainly helping – as (strangely) is writing this.

Estoy la Maestra de Yoga!

2009-07-27T19:50:00.012-06:00

I am the Yoga Teacher! It occurred to me that I haven’t really blogged about that yet - so I thought I should. Well, my new career got off to a slow start. I planned to do my first lesson at 5pm on the 1st of July. I had 5 people signed up, everything was looking good, I was ready, with my lesson plan neatly typed up, bag of mats underarm... then at 4.45pm the heavens opened and the rain came down in torrents. Ah yes, The Rainy Season – I had forgotten about that.

I re-scheduled to the following morning, but was disappointed when just 1 person came to my very first class. They warned me that it rains most days at 5pm, so I decided to stick with the 7am class. For 2 days, no one came. People were telling me that this is too much of a party place and no one would get up that early, and I was starting to feel pretty disheartened.

Then, it picked up! The next day there was 2.... then 6... then one bright sunny morning I had 8 people, which was very exciting! Initially, I was teaching on some flat grass by the river, but as the rains kicked in, that location became too muddy. So I moved the classes to the terrace at the house, which is lovely – but it’s 'off campus' – so now I have to persuade the lazy backpackers to walk down the road. As a result, recently the 7am class became an 8am class! But my schedule is still very fluid, as the weather and the customers change.

There have been some interesting students and moments. Last week there were two people who extended their stay just to do some more yoga with me, which was a wonderful compliment. This week, there was a small, public-school girl, doing her first ever yoga class, who spoke mostly in capitals, and thought yoga was “aMAZing” and “JUST INCREDible” and “fanTAStic and “NEVer EVEN KNEW yoga could be like THAT!”

Of course there was also the serious young man in lycra leggings who huffily told me he preferred “proper yoga”. I asked what he considered to be proper yoga?
“Like they do in India,” he replied. I said that I haven’t been lucky enough to study yoga in India yet, and asked if he would tell me more about it.
“You know” he said “no-one telling you what to do – everyone does their own thing, at their own speed”. It occurred to me that if he wanted to do his own thing at his own speed, he didn’t really need to come to a class! But I didn’t say anything.

In the first week, by the river, there was a young cow that was very curious. One day, she came to class! She stood on the back row and watched intently for about 45 minutes. Finally, during the Balance Sequence it all became too much for her – she rubbed her nose against one of the girls, knocking over a very nice Ardha Chandrasana (Half Moon Pose). So I shooed her away (the cow, not the girl) – but the rest of the back row complained – it seemed they all liked her being there! The following day she was more restrained and just watched from the side (the cow, not the girl).

Yoga has been met with complete amazement by the local Mayans. None of them have ever seen yoga before and they are quite enthralled. The first day 4 gardeners watched, literally with open mouths.
“But what is Yoga?” I am frequently asked! Funny, that was the first question in our Final Exam for the Teacher Training – but I didn’t actually think I would ever get asked that in ‘real life’.
“It means union” I reply, “It’s an exercise, and a philosophy, from India”
“Where?”
“India, it’s a country in Asia”
“Oh, that’s a long way from here”
“Well, yes.”
“But what is it for?”
“Strength, flexibility, balance and happiness” I say.
“Oh” they say. “Is it just for tourists?”

Several of the Mayans have said they’d like to come – but it hasn’t happened yet! I also had a request from one of the ladies in the kitchen to come and teach a class at the Community Centre for a group of ladies and children. She said there might be 40 of them! Most of who don’t speak Spanish (let alone English). We are still in discussion, but hopefully one of our Mayan bartenders will come with me to translate. It could be interesting! Most of the women here still wear traditional clothes – I cannot imagine them in shorts! I can’t imagine them even owning shorts! I have this vision in my mind of 40 buxom Mayan chicks in Warrior 2, all wearing hand-woven full skirts, lace tunics and plastic slippers :-) So I’ll keep you posted on how, or whether, that happens!

Wildlife/Housemates Update

I think Behemoth #1 has left home! It seems this house wasn’t big enough for the both of us. Behemoth #2 is still in residence and in revenge for destroying his digs (the Blue Blanket) he now likes to hang out at the top of my stairs, just next to the light switch – scaring the living daylights out of me when I am on my way to bed.

A smaller behemoth (Beast #1) seems to be stepping into the voluminous, but metaphorical, boots vacated by Behemoth #1; I am watching his progress with interest.

Two pikey scorpions are roaming, but not yet ensconced in, my region of the house. The smaller one was first seen in my room – presumably he was stopping by to introduce himself – I was not hospitable, but bravely swept him down the stairs. I suspect he is now hiding in the closet at the bottom of the stairs. The second, however, is out and proud.

The cats are all fine – they have recently formed a Barber Shop Trio, led by ‘Alpha Cat’, and they get together in the kitchen, for a sing, at about 4am, which is just marvellous. ‘Tom Cat’ was ‘done’ last week, to the great relief of everyone – so the house no longer smells of cat pee. He is furious and won’t even look at us anymore. ‘Small Cat’ was also ‘done’ and some kittens were aborted. She looks very small and forlorn now – but we are making a fuss of her and she seems ok.

The last house-mates I should mention are the possums, who come through the kitchen window and mix cocktails in the dead of night – they then get drunk and dance on the roof. I haven’t actually witnessed this because I can’t be bothered to get out of bed, but I hear them loud and clear. At least they shut the cats up.

Life in the garden is also thriving – a large, totally groovy, caterpillar is living near the outside tap. So far, he has ‘burned’ both of my (human) house-mates but not me! I am too sharp. Several frogs abound, both indoors and out, which makes showering more exhilarating.

The herd of bulls from over the river have discovered the uncut grass in our garden is far superior to scrub on their side and are now regular visitors. This is particularly exciting when one to comes to the door for a look, especially if you are half-asleep and not really prepared to see a large bull standing in the open doorway.

I’m posting some pictures of my various housemates – and one (especially for my brother – who is a big fan) of the largest moth I have ever seen. This one was in the shower; I put him out the window, before the ‘shower tarantula’ got him. Behemoth #1 used to love moths...

Interface

2009-07-14T07:55:00.002-06:00

The junior backpacker was so young and fresh he was almost shiney. He approached the bar and asked, “Is there any chance of hot water around here? I could do with a proper scrub after that awful bus ride,” he added apologetically.

But it was too much, too fast, for our Mayan Bartender, whose English is good, but not great. He replied cautiously: “Hot water?”
“Yes, hot water! Any chance? Around here?” he made a circular motion with his hand to further elucidate ‘around here’ (a la Peter Kaye).
“Hot water,” confirmed the bartender, “for sure, yes!” and he turned, picked up a coffee cup and began to fill it with hot water from the coffee machine.
“Oh. I’m getting a cup.” Said the backpacker, a little crestfallen.
The junior backpacker and his rosy-cheeked companions conferred quietly. There were murmurs of ‘I don’t think he understood... how should we...? ...ask again! ...Why don’t you ask!’ and I watched with interest as the Bartender returned with a steaming mug of water.

Do I need to add that the backpackers were all English? The bartender placed the mug on the bar and the Junior Backpacker smiled warmly,
“That’s marvellous!” he said “thanks so much!” and with that, the young adventurers wandered away – dusty and dejected.

The bartender turned to me, “English” he said, “like you. I think he must make tea,” he added.

Before you ask – yes. I do know where you can get a hot shower around here (making circular motion with the hand). But a cold shower does the little blighters good!

The Blue Blanket

2009-07-03T20:05:00.002-06:00

I don’t want to be boring and I know that spiders have loomed large in my last two blog posts. But spiders are looming large in my life right now – so I am afraid this is another blog about my eight-legged enemies.

Draped casually and prettily over the wall in my room is a large, blue Guatemalan blanket. The other day I decided to see if I could drape the blanket over the rafters and hopefully block out the view of the behemoth that lives in the rafters just beyond my loft (see previous blog). I couldn’t make it work – but shortly after trying; another behemoth hit the ground running, scaring the living daylights out of me, because spiders are nocturnal! You don’t usually see many in the day and you hardly ever see them moving. Like aliens, "they mostly come at night... mostly". It occurred to me afterwards that my moving of the blanket and the agitated appearance of a spider in the afternoon might be connected. Also, this morning upon waking I saw a four-incher sitting right next to the blanket.

So I have come to be of the opinion that this blanket is probably a dark and secluded, palatial spider residence. And it’s in my self-designated space. So it’s going to have to go.

My friend Judit recently told me a story (which I hope she won’t mind me repeating – as it’s a great story!) A few years ago, she and her husband took over the management of a Dive Shop in the tropics. It had been closed for a few months previously, so when they went to inspect the equipment they found whole families of spiders living in the BCDs (jackets). Their solution was to throw all the gear into the sea and then run away! She said within moments the water was full of black, hairy refugees all frantically learning to swim.

With this in mind, whilst I want the blanket gone, actually picking it up and moving it, is the last thing I want to do! I have thought of picking up one end and dropping it into the kitchen below, where I will not be able to witness the resulting exodus (especially if I am cowering strategically on the floor). But inevitably not all of the inhabitants will go down with their blanket. Some will hang onto the wall, next to which I will be strategically cowering. Not good.

Furthermore the blanket is not far from the door. So if things start running, they might block my exit. I have a balcony that I could potentially throw myself off – but so far I haven’t been able to find the key to unlock the door. Which might actually be a good thing.

What to do?

Oh and I saw my first scorpion last night – four inches away from the light switch which I had just used. So that was a valuable lesson about the dangers of turning on lights. On the bright side: in the garden we have hummingbirds! Hummingbirds! Which, as someone once said, "would be impossible, if they didn’t exist!" I will try to get a picture for you. And so many butterflies! It’s funny, you don’t see many butterflies these days – but here they are plentiful.

Addendum

2009-07-01T15:41:00.001-06:00

I forgot to mention the cats! I am not sure how many we have because they are all identical. So, needless to say, they are all equally adorable. I am encouraging them to hang-out up here and be fierce with anything smaller than they are.

Last night a very grown-up spider emerged from the rafters – easily as big as my hand and particularly ugly – but he was crouched just beyond my designated loft space, so I made the decision he could stay! Ha!

I managed to convince myself that he was in his space and I am in mine and he has no reason to invade my loft. Of course this is a ridiculous argument as it presupposes the spider recognises the distinction between my loft and his rafters. It also assumes that he gives a damn. I decided not to look at him. That helped. In my favour, yesterday I did sweep my loft with a verve and ferocity that only those of you who knew me as a small child will be able to imagine. However at bedtime I was forced to fully embrace the fact that, should he choose to do so, he could in my bed in less than 30 seconds. He was almost the size of a small cat!

So it’s not surprising that, when one of the small cats jumped onto my bed just as I was dozing off, I should jump, momentarily leaving my skin, and catapult (or kick? I am not sure) the small cat off the bed and across the room. He/she retreated to the bookcase and sat and glared at me with equal parts bewilderment and hatred.

I said sorry, but you know what cats are like – it could be weeks until I’m forgiven.

And no MG4D, I am not travelling with a mosquito net, but it’s something I think I may need to acquire. Because mosquito nets are impenetrable (I believe they are made of the same fabric as Batman’s cape) to any and all monsters. That’s what I choose to believe anyway, and I don’t want any of you to tell me otherwise.

Please.

Leaving, arriving, old friends & new enemies

2009-06-30T18:08:00.006-06:00

I haven’t blogged in ages – there’s been too much to do, too much going on. Which, of course, is a total waste of blog content! When life is dull I have nothing to blog about and when life is a full and rich tapestry, I am too busy!

So I have decided to make up for it now. This is going to be a long post. So long, you might want to read it in instalments. So long that you will almost definitely want a cup of tea before you start. Go on, make one now – don’t worry I’ll wait.

Ready? Good. So I left Mexico on the evening of the 27th and had a very uneventful bus ride down to the border. What is it with Border Guards? Some of the most unpleasant people I have ever encountered have been at border control. The application to be a Border Guard must read as follows:

Question 1: Are you a complete and total bastard, with no sense of integrity, courtesy or respect for your fellow human beings?
If yes, please proceed to Question 2
If no, leave now and never darken our doors again.

The Mexican border guards were charging everyone $20 to leave the country. We had words: me in my poor and broken Spanish, and them in increasingly fast and agitated Spanish.

But is it for? I asked. It is a tax for leaving! They said. But there is no tax for leaving Mexico! Yes, there is! No there isn’t! Show me this in writing! There! Look at the poster on the wall – you see the picture of the visa – there it is! That poster says you need a visa – there is no mention of a tax for leaving. There is a tax! You think I am lying to you? (Very agitated) Senor, maybe my Spanish is so bad I don’t understand you. But what is the $20 for exactly? It is a tax for leaving! (This was going nowhere) But I have no money! Then you can go to the cash machine over there. Ok, I have some dollars, but I will need an official receipt and I would also like you to write both your names, so I can check later. He will give you a receipt. Great, thanks. No, no, he will give you the receipt. But he said you would? (Some fast, very agitated Spanish) Here! Sign this! But this is not a receipt? Just sign this! (The Border Guard had a scrap of paper, on which he had written “No tengo dinero” meaning ‘I have no money’ and he asked me to sign it. I signed. Now go away! He said, and I went.

The Belizean border guard wanted to know why I wasn’t staying in Belize, rather than going straight through to Guatemala. I felt like telling him about my last visit, when I was ripped off by the Belizean Border Guards who demanded a tax for leaving the country.

Soon Belize was behind me and we entered Guatemala and the worst roads I have experienced, since leaving Guatemala 6 years ago. The drive to Flores was like travelling in a cocktail shaker. Finally I arrived, shaken but not stirred, and went looking for food.

A Vegetarian Platter

“What is the vegetarian platter?” I inquired. The waiter looked at me as if I was a complete idiot. “Vegetables” he replied. Obviously.

The following is a fictionalised account of a conversation I feel sure took place, but did not actually witness.

“She wants the vegetarian platter”
“What’s that?”
“What do you mean ‘what’s that’? You’re the bloody cook!”
“Well, what does she eat?”
“Vegetables obviously. She’s a vegetarian”
“No meat?”
“No meat”
“Not even the sausage?”
“No! No meat, vegetables”
“What’s wrong with her?
“Look, have you got any vegetables?”
“Of course I have vegetables! What do you want me to do with them?”
“Cook them!”
“That’s it? Just cooked vegetables?”
“Just cooked vegetables.”
“Are you sure?
“Yes!”
“Ok then”

My vegetarian platter was served with a flourish and a look that said, “Well you ordered it”. It comprised: 1 boiled potato, quartered; 1 boiled carrot (halved); 12 green beans (skewered on cocktail sticks); 1 whole corn on the cob; some unidentifiable squash, quartered; rice and refried beans. It was ok! I like vegetables. But some seasoning would have been good.

Arrival

It’s like Facebook – where, as I have said before – old friends turn up looking like their older and fatter siblings. The first person I saw was Guillermo, the once-cook is now an unlikely Security Guard, at about 4ft high, he’s wearing a gun that’s almost bigger than he is! Looking older and rounder – but just the same. I asked if I could leave my bags somewhere, “leave them anywhere you like” he said, gesturing towards the green space surrounding us “I hear the security here is excellent.” He remembered me and that was nice. I recognised the little girls selling fresh ground cocoa, they were, of course, the baby sisters of the girls I remembered well! Even El Retiro itself is a little older, grander and fatter than it’s former self. So many more Cabañas, and a huge new restaurant, but still kind of the same.

I found the manager, he was expecting me and gave me the keys to Matt’s house, where I will be staying. (Thanks Matt!)

The House of Spiders

I know, I’ve kind of given away the plot in the title. So you know what’s coming. It’s a great house, very atmospheric, the kind of place you would go gaga over if you saw a spread on it in the Sunday Supplement. It’s an ‘outside’ house – where even when you’re inside, you have the illusion of being outside. Unfortunately, the local fauna suffers from the same illusion.

It’s full of wildlife. Last night I stayed in the spider-infested main bedroom. Today I moved into the spider-infested loft: on the basis, that’s it’s even more ‘open’ and outside. If I’m going to have to share my space with the locals I would rather not be locked in with them.

There’s so many cobwebs, great long, thick cobwebs that stretch between the rafters – so I knew what to expect when night fell. I watched a video in the early evening, after 2 hours seated I got up and almost every step meant walking through newly spun cobwebs – the doorway to my room, the space between the kitchen counters – everywhere! On going to bed I spotted the first few monsters – the largest probably 4 inches across (and they do get bigger than that). But what can you do? Sleep in the spider-infested living room instead? I turned the lights out and practiced some calming pranayama.

Here in my new room, in the roof, I have one wall completely open to the elements and another half-open (overlooking the kitchen). The other two walls have open space under the roof. As well as some ominously large spider webs, I have also spotted two wasps nests and an enormous ants nest just outside. I really like ants – and these are big ones, I bet they eat spiders. So it’s good to know I have some allies up here!

The following pictures were taken in the last few minutes, from inside my room.

Before you start feeling sorry for me – here’s the view I will be waking up to every morning!

The hills, the house, the walls are alive! But it’s good to be back! Tonight I will go to the bar and start touting my Yoga classes. First class tomorrow.

Several Seemingly Unconnected Incidents

2009-05-15T13:50:00.002-06:00

In December my Dive Computer broke – a bit fell off. Fortunately, it was still under guarantee so I sent it back to the manufacturers to be repaired. I have a spare computer (my old one), which is basic but still works, and I had a spare watch.

My spare watch broke within a week. Some water got inside it and it gave up and died. So I bought a new watch. Knowing I would only need it until my computer came back (my dive computer is also a watch), I didn’t want to spend a lot of money, so I was delighted to find a decent underwater watch for a very reasonable price.

Last month I had to go to Belize for a few days. On the way back I met a girl on the bus who told me her life story (this happens to me more often than you might think! I am someone to whom people tell their life stories. I don’t know why: I like to think I am a good listener; but I think mainly it’s because I’m nosey and ask a lot of questions). Her life story was both fascinating and disturbing, and I may well write a blog about it – but this is not it. She asked about my watch: she wanted to buy an underwater watch but couldn’t find one she could afford. She was very impressed with the price I paid for mine and asked me if I would go back to the shop to see if they had any more. If they did, she said, she would pay the money into my account and I could buy it and post it to her. These days you’re not supposed to give people your account details – even sweet Belizean girls who believe they are, and have been raised as, the reincarnated spirit of their dead Aunt. But we exchanged email addresses and I promised I would go and look.

In the following week she sent me a number of emails asking if I had had time to go to the shop, but I didn’t make it until a week later, only to discover that they had no more. I did intend to email her immediately to let her know – but to be honest, it slipped my mind. In the mean time my Dive Computer came back, shiney and intact, which was great.

The following weekend I attended an Ashtanga Workshop, which the teacher offered as a ‘Karma Class’, because it was his birthday. So the Workshop was free (and fantastic) – and at the end of the class, he reminded us all that we should try to pass on the karma by helping someone or giving something.

So later that afternoon when my Belizean friend contacted me on Messenger it seemed clear what I should do. I explained that I couldn’t buy her the watch, because there were no more, but that if she gave me her postal address I would send her mine as a gift.

She was quite surprised by this! So I explained about the Karma Class, and also that my Dive Computer was now fixed – so in fact, giving her this watch was a small thing.

I haven’t heard from her since.

So what do you think? Does she just not want a second-hand watch? Does she think I’m a weirdo and is reluctant to give me her postal address? Or was she a very credible Identity Fraudster and I have had a lucky escape?!

From the Plague-zone: Bring out your dead!

2009-05-08T16:29:00.004-06:00

Mexican newspapers are bloodthirsty. What they really love is a good car crash – some twisted, smoking metal with a bleeding, near-dead victim inside... Super! That will make the front page every time. Dead bodies are pretty good too – especially if there’s some guts. There was a big gang-shooting incident just after Christmas and the local Newspaper had five, executed corpses on the front page the next morning. Great.

I have a friend here who used to work as a Journalist in Mexico City and she told me that after an Earthquake that she covered, the Mexican Authorities had no qualms about inviting Journo’s into the hospital to shoot photos and video at the bedsides of victims. She also tells me she’s been allowed in Prisons and into numerous ‘high risk’ situations.

So this is why it seems very odd to me that after several weeks of being in the epicentre of the Global Flu Pandemic I have yet to see a picture of a victim. Who are these people? What were their names? If we can’t have pictures of them, then why not some of the families they left behind? If they were Mexican be assured they left an extensive family behind! Where are these people?

Playa del Carmen is a tourist town, the area was not very well populated before the tourism was developed so most of people who live here come from elsewhere in the country, and most of them come from Mexico City.

I know of no one, who knows of anyone who has had swine flu. Obviously Mexico City is a big place – but it’s odd that out of over a 1000 (allegedly) victims, all of whom have families, all of who have friends... that no one has met or heard of anyone who has it? Surely some one would know some one whose friend had an Aunt whose cousin’s boyfriend was sick?

I read an article recently, which said that three years ago the US Govt bought 1 billion Swine Flu vaccinations in preparation for the Avian Flu Pandemic. These Vaccines have a shelf life of three years. Gosh, what a spot of luck - how convenient.

So how is the Plague-zone? Well you know those towns in Spagetti Westerns with the tumbleweed drifting down the main street?

Nah! Don’t be silly, it’s not quite like that! But the streets are quiet.

Last week a few people were wearing masks. The staff in the Supermarkets still are, but no one else is bothering any more. Most people think the Pandemic has been fabricated or at least greatly exaggerated. So we’re all pretty relaxed about the health aspects.

The bad news is that most of the tourists have cancelled. The hotel where I work is down to 23% capacity at the moment and I have had 2 customers this week. Very few people get a salary. Like me, most people work for commission – so there’s gonna be some tumbleweed drifting through my next pay packet, I suspect. Two hotels in Cancun have already closed down. There are rumours that other places might too. The future is not bright. The foreign, transient workers, like me, can leave (and many are) - but for the Mexicans with mortgages and children to feed, this is a nightmare. It's not as if we were having a great season anyway - with all the economic woes in Europe and the US.

So if this was some little scheme to sell off all those unwanted vaccines - then I hope that someone in the Mexican Govt will get a new house out of this! Or perhaps the US Aid package to Mexico will be significantly increased this year? I hope that at least some of the 'Pay Off' goes to the Mexican people and not all of it into some Politicians’ pocket.

Mostly though, it's the Press who have created this situation. In a bid to sell a few more Newspapers, 1 case became 'over 100 suspected cases...' and each reported death becomes '200 suspected deaths...' I thought the Media was supposed to report the News, not attempt to create it.

So I hope when the Editors get their fat bonuses, they spare a thought for the people who will end up paying.

Om, Boo, Hula and Other Funny Noises

2009-04-20T16:34:00.008-06:00

They tell me that Om is the sound of the Universe. The sound of it's creation and the sound that will be left when all the others noises are gone. Ok, so before any yogis out there start getting all zen-nazi with me [grin] can I just state for the record that my sense of humour can be a little sharp, so if that’s going to bother you – move along! There’s nothing to see here!

I’m not saying that Om is total nonsense – really I’m not! To paraphrase something my teacher read out the other morning – ‘the symbol for OM is important because the four parts represent the four states of being’. The key word here is REPRESENT.

No one suggests that the symbol for ‘Om’ IS the four states of being – that it manifests our reality or exists on some existential level. No, we accept that it’s a symbol and, as such is powerful because it REPRESENTS all these things – and symbols can be powerful – as we know from our Mudras... and the golden arches, the swastika and the swoosh... amongst other things.

On that basis, the sound Om, can be said to REPRESENT the sound of the universe and for this reason maybe it's powerful. It is also powerful for several practical reasons: it can be said that the vibration of the sound resonates and makes a physical impact and we can say that the action of the chant brings oxygen into the system, focuses the mind and regulates the breath in preparation for Ujjiyi breathing. All, important stuff.

However, the universe is at least 15 billion years old. Evidence suggests that before this there was void. After this there was gas and eventually matter. There was no life: nothing to witness these events or to create a memory of this time. Therefore no one: not you or I; not the yogic sages; no religious icons; not even the greatest scientific minds of this, or any, generation can say, with any basis of fact, what sound was made – or indeed if any sound was made – at the creation of the universe.

We can guess, we can suppose, we can, of course, mythologise – but we can’t KNOW. So to state as a fact, with a full stop at the end, that OM is the sound of the Universe, is specious.

That is not to say you can’t believe this! Believing something that has no rational basis, but which feels right on an instinctive level is the foundation of all Religion! So whilst I do not agree with this practice as a rationale for a belief system – I also realise I am in the minority on this point!

But I do think it’s important to be aware of the difference between BELIEF and FACT. And to remain open to the possibility that your own beliefs, if not based in fact, may be completely incorrect. Historically, confusion between this two crucial ‘truths’ – belief and fact – has been the cause of almost every war and every prejudice the world has seen. Currently of course, we have a climate of religious fanaticism – where confusion between belief and fact leads people to hate and even murder those who give credence to a different ‘truth’.

Furthermore, since the zealots of every persuasion tend to be loud and forceful in their opinions, whereas the rationalists tend to be more circumspect, we have reached a point where the free thinkers in our society are being steamrolled by superstition and mythology. This is a Bad Thing! This is bad for everyone!

In the spirit of Ghandi’s invocation that we should “be the change we wish to see in the world” I think it’s important that rational people, the free thinkers, speak out against superstition where it is presented as fact. I believe a rational society will be a civilised society and who knows – maybe if people can be persuaded to give more weight to the laws of nature, physics and geology – and less credence to blind faith and ‘gut feeling’ – then maybe one day we will be able to call ourselves civilised.

So I am afraid, whilst I have absolute respect for all my fellow yogis and yoginis and I do not seek to offend, I will continue to raise a gently scornful eyebrow when you assure me that you know, without any doubt, what sound was made by an explosion 15 billion years ago.

Namaste

Now, Yoga

2009-04-08T20:18:00.004-06:00

So, as you know, this month I have been mostly doing Yoga. I can’t believe I am just over a month into my course! I am stronger, fitter and healthier than I have been in a long time. To be honest I was expecting that. I wouldn’t be taking a Yoga Teacher Course if I didn’t already believe that Yoga is incredibly good for you!

So what wasn’t I expecting? I was expecting to learn a lot of new stuff from the vast cauldron of Eastern Philosophy. I was expecting this to be interesting and perhaps even insightful. But to be honest, I wasn’t expecting to actually believe much of it!

However it seems 20 odd years of determined cynicism is being stripped away, to be replaced by... what? I’m not sure yet.

In our first training session our Teacher pointed out something very obvious and crucial: that you must practice what you teach. If you are going to stand up in front of a class and encourage them challenge their body and mind, you have to live by the same rules. “Of course” I thought, “that’s obvious!” (Although, if I’m honest, it wasn’t something that had occurred to me earlier). However, in that spirit I decided to be open to whatever ideas were thrown at me, and to try and live by the principles that I was prescribed.

I am still trying to do that – although it’s not easy and is going to take a lot more time and dedication than I originally supposed. But the Constraints are fair: do not harm yourself or others; do not steal or lie; control your passions and do not be greedy or covetous. You can’t argue with that! The Observances too: purity or cleanliness; honesty; austerity or self-discipline (by far the most challenging for me – but I can’t deny I need some!) and self-study. All good. I am having trouble reconciling what the last Observance – awareness of the Divine – might mean to me as an atheist. But I am assured that Yoga is not a religion – so perhaps human endeavour and our ability to love is my ‘divinity’?

The daily practice of physical yoga as well as meditation and pranayama (breathing control) is also undeniably good for me – although requires more daily discipline than I have managed to summon so far!

So what’s the 'BUT'? Perhaps there isn’t one... except... I am not sure if I fully recognise myself anymore. I am changing.

I was thinking about my Yoga Class and what I think of my fellow students – all good things! But that led me to wonder what they think of me, and how they perceive me... and I realised I have no idea.

I have always had a very clear idea of how I am perceived. Maybe I have been wrong about that! But I always FELT that I knew. I no longer have any idea. I have stopped talking about the experiences that I used to think defined me. It was not deliberate – I’ve just become aware that I have.

You know how you have key information that you give about yourself when you meet someone: you don’t give a life story and complete self-analysis – who would listen! You give key facts, experiences – maybe not consciously – but you are giving the information that you believe will allow people to see you for who you are.

I am always very interested when people start by giving their job title! As if what they do for a living is the cornerstone of who they are. But perhaps for some people is genuinely is. In contrast, I have always enjoyed the fact that my brother refuses to discuss what he does for a living – claiming that even he doesn’t fully understand!

I used to introduce myself with my travels and some experiences (told as ‘amusing’ anecdotes – thereby displaying my sense of humour and communication/storytelling skills). This, I believed, defined me. And having that ‘Past’ was important to me. It was a foundation for who I am. I built that ‘Past’ – strived for it – to become the person I aspired to be.

I don’t do that anymore. Why not? What information do I give instead? I am not sure... perhaps I don’t introduce myself so much. It’s all starting to seem very unimportant: where I have been, what I have done, the adventures – this foundation I have built. It feels like I’ve built a beautiful Conservatory, only to discover that I don’t have a garden.

Am I just finally doing the last 10 years of growing up in this 6 months? What a crazy thought – like Dorian Grey, in a distant town somewhere, someone has cleared their attic and thrown my mental picture into the rubbish! Tomorrow, or someday soon, I will awaken to find I am AN ADULT!

But you have to loose your mind, in order to find it again, and I am told, before you can receive, you need to let go.

Ever thought you might have accidentally joined a cult?

2009-03-29T17:37:00.004-06:00

Don't worry! I'm not dead - I'm doing Yoga. No really. All of the time. Because, as my teacher... (or should I very tentatively say... Guru?) says -

"Everything you do do on your Yoga mat, should be Yoga. And everything you do off your Yoga mat... should also be Yoga"

Quite. So, I am doing a Yoga Teacher Training course at the moment and in the spirit of practicing what I intend to preach, I am doing my best to immerse myself in the philosophy as well as the course. I feel I can officially describe myself as a Yogini. I will, of course, blog a lot more about this enormous, life changing topic... but at the moment (to be honest) it's just too enormous, too all encompassing and too life-changing for me to be able to reduce it to a small, mildly glib, Blog Post.

In the meantime I shall leave you with this, from Patanjali's Yoga Sutras: Yoga is

"To still the restless mind (and thus find peace)"

It’s behind you! (Part 2)

2009-03-02T20:43:00.004-06:00

I’m wise to it now – it’s not going to happen to me again. I did two dives today, finishing off an Open Water course. Ten minutes into the second dive, I was chilling, watching my students doing a wobbly hover, being entertained... when a sudden thought crossed my mind! What is happening behind me right now?

Could there be another Eagle Ray cruising past? A Giant Green Moray emerging from it’s cave? A school of shimmering Bat Fish? A Turtle stopping by for a rest and a snack? Herds of wildebeest sweeping across the plain? Ok, not that.

But I am a responsible Instructor! I didn’t turn around... not until they’d finished. Then I gave them both an underwater round of applause, a polite handshake and suggested we go for a quick explore. I turned... and I swear, for a minute I thought my eyes must be deceiving me, when three dolphins calmly glided past, no more than a few metres ahead of me.

You never see dolphins underwater. Only once before have I seen a dolphin under water and that was very brief. Today, these guys just sauntered past, relaxed, composed, amazing.

Back at the Marina, chatting to our (very jealous) photographer, I said how lucky I felt. He laughed and said, no, not lucky: because the dolphins know exactly where we are. So if we see a dolphin in the water, it’s because they want us to see them.

I reckon one of them must of read my blog! Heard about the Eagle Ray, decided to make up for it. Well it did. Boo sucks to Eagle Rays! I saw Dolphins today! Top trumps. Game over!

It’s behind you!

2009-03-01T14:20:00.007-06:00

"So how about that stingray? He was cool, wasn’t he?" I asked.
"Yes great! But there was a much bigger one at the beginning, while we were coming down the line. This one was different though," replied my customer, with a puzzled frown.
"Really? How so?"

There are a number of different kinds of rays: your ‘common & garden’ Southern Stingray (above) is the one we see most often. They’re very slick, light grey, very fast – but nervous, so sadly you don’t usually see them for long.

Marble Ray : Photo from Dive Sites Directory

There are other rays though: occasionally around here I’ve seen a Marble Ray, they are bigger and very UFO-ish. Last year, in the Philippines, I was in the pathway of a very startled Marble Ray, it came racing up a wall straight at me – I remember hovering, wide-eyed, completely unable to identify what I was looking at – for a moment I thought I might of been in a real-life Abyss scenario!

Further south they sometimes see Eagle Rays, I used to see them fairly often in Honduras, but since then (6 years ago) I think I’ve only seen two. I’ve never seen one here in Mexico. They’re pretty spectacular. Of course the King of the Rays is the mighty Manta. I’ve only ever seen four of those – unforgettable, gentle giants of the ocean. Related to Mantas are the smaller Devil Rays – they sound scary, but they’re just smaller Mantas, very mellow.

"So what did it look like? What shape was it?"
"Fatter than the other one we saw and it was dark red, with spots I think, and... well... you’re going to think I’m crazy, but it’s head kind of looked like a bird! I think it had a sort of beak!"
"A Spotted Eagle Ray. You saw a Spotted Eagle Ray..." I struggled to keep the resentment and jelousy out of my voice, "where was it?"
"It was very close! It swam right behind you!"
"A Spotted Eagle Ray swam right behind me?" Too brisk, be polite!
"Yes, it was big! Bigger than you! About 6 feet! Are they usually that big?"
"No." I swallowed, "so, a two-metre Spotted Eagle Ray swam right behind me? That’s very big. I haven’t seen an Eagle Ray for well over a year."
"Really? It was quite amazing looking!" he gushed with a broad grin.
"Yes, they are, fantastic. I wish I’d seen it." There was an awkward pause.
"Oh!" The penny dropped. "Oh... I probably should have pointed it out, shouldn’t I?"
"That would have been nice, but never mind." I said, insincerely.
"Oh well. I guess I was lucky!"

Spotted Eagle Ray : Photo by Timothy M GcGovern

Two bloody metres! He saw a two-metre Spotted Eagle Ray and he didn’t think to point it out! The reason it swam right behind me, without me noticing, is because I’ve got to keep looking at him! Bloody customers! I mean, what was he thinking? Even if you know nothing about aquatic life, surely if you saw a red, bird-like creature, with the head of an eagle and a two-bloody-metre wingspan, you’d think that it would be worth a casual nod in the general direction, wouldn’t you? You can’t seriously be expecting to see that when you sign up for your Discover Scuba experience. Surely, you would point and give the appropriate hand signal for ‘what the be-jesus is that?!' Or indeed any hand signal, or a wave, or flap your arms, or at the very least you would stare with big eyes and an open mouth! Wouldn’t you?

I remember coming down the line with him very clearly; he was perfectly calm the whole way. He showed no signs of surprise or alarm. At which point do you think he saw the red, spotted ray, with a head of an eagle and a two-metre wingspan?

Could he have been lying?

I enjoyed my first ever dive, but I have to say, if I had seen a two-metre Spotted Eagle Ray I would have been a bit alarmed. I definitely would have pointed it out to my Instructor. Could he have been lying? But he described it so well... and why would he make up something like that? To wind me up perhaps? He tipped though.

Two-metre Spotted Eagle Ray! Seriously. Right bloody behind me.

Bugger.

Another Coffee Shop Blog

2009-02-15T18:03:00.007-06:00

I spend a lot of time there, ok! Think of it as a bit like Seinfeld, only without the friends, or the booth. My Coffee Shop is actually a lot classier, with leather armchairs, low lights and a staff tee shirt, so stylish, that I’m seriously considering asking if I can buy one. It also has lots of interesting customers: artsy types; fashionistas; über-cool Argentinean surfers; musicians; emo-kids and some assorted oddballs.

There’s a super-chic, magnificently accessorized Italian Señora: I recently bought a strip of brightly coloured Mayan fabric, which I use a belt, specifically because I saw her do the same and it looked so good. She wears lots of jewellery and looks bohemian and eclectic. If I did the same I would look like a kid who’d broken unto mummy’s jewellery box and was going to get in so much trouble later.

There’s Paul: American, early 60’s, writing a novel (aren’t we all), who told me his wife left him because she wanted to move to Mexico. He said fine, she asked why he was agreeing so easily, he said it was to make her happy, she said this was not a good enough reason. So shortly after they moved here she left him and returned to the States, abandoning their 32-year marriage. I suspect there might be a little more to this story! He recently had a Birthday Party and ostentatiously invited the three, beautiful, 20-something waitresses, I don’t know if any of them went.

Yesterday, there was a new character: once upon a time Playa del Carmen was a cool, hippy hangout and there are still a few relics from that age wandering around in their Grateful Dead t-shirts and Willie Nelson style hair braids, looking vaguely bewildered by the city that has grown up around them. This guy looked like one of that tribe: long grey hair, frosted blue eyes, very much like David Carradine, with a ponytail. He sat across the room for me and started talking to someone on Skype. I wasn’t intending to listen until something he said caught my attention:

"So I dreamt that these two guys were dead, then yesterday I walked down and there’s the ambulance – turns out one of them is dead and the other's in a coma! I have to be careful what I think about cos I’m making it happen!"

I am a sceptic, so of course, I assumed he was a nutcase. He was, after all, old enough to one of the acid pioneers and they are known for their fluid perception of reality. But suppose it was true? Suppose I was in the presence of a dangerous and bizarre psychic phenomena. Any day now Americas Most Haunted (or do I mean Most Wanted?) will descend upon us with Geiger-counters, clipboards and a near hysterical anchorwoman. He was speaking in nervous, hushed tones so I missed the next part of the conversation, but then I heard,

"Well now I am emailing positive images out all around the globe...," emailing? Emailing? Is he using a modern term for sending out vibes? Or does he actually email photos of happy faces and great achievements out into the ether? Surely he’d be better off making a YouTube video or joining Twitter – perhaps I should suggest that?

"I’ve been spending a lot of time focusing on these pictures and thinking about good things, so no one else gets hurt"

How sad, he believes he has this extraordinary power and he’s hiding away, hunched over his computer studying ‘positive images’, terrified of the damage he might do. I missed the rest of the conversation. But shortly after he hung up, a burly Texan, in a faded ‘One-Star Rodeo’ tee shirt bellowed across the room,
"Was that Callie? Did ya tell her about the dude you killed?"

Mr Carradine nodded, anguish etched into his features, and the tears welled up in his eyes.

Question: I had a really fat customer the other day. I mean really, really fat. It was interesting for me, logistically, because fat is buoyant. It’s actually very hard to sink that much fat. The obese need a lot of weight, but carrying it can be a problem as they are generally not strong, very unfit, awkwardly shaped and difficult to handle. Getting a weight belt done up for example: do you politely ask them to lift their rolls so you can assess where their waist might be? Suppose their belly is too large for them to lift single-handed?

Some of my readers are fellow divers, so they might be interested in this situation. I was not planning to be nasty about the guy; he seemed nice enough (although you have to wonder about the self respect and intelligence of someone who chooses to be in that condition – and yes, I do believe it is a choice). But what are the ethics of blogging about this? Is it cruel? Is it bitchy? Is it a breach of confidence? Unprofessional? Can I make jokes?

To tell the truth, the blog has been written... but should I post it?

Let slip the dogs of war

2009-02-08T12:07:00.005-06:00

The house behind my place has dogs. Lots of dogs. Lots of small, yappy, squeally, really, really annoying dogs. Last week, they got a new dog. It’s yappy, it’s whiney and it doesn’t stop barking. Ever.

Actually, that’s not completely accurate. It usually has some quiet periods between 3am and 5am, but apart from that, it doesn’t stop, ever. It’s starts fairly promptly at 5am, from that point it only pauses for breath. The other dogs join in for the chorus, about every 20 minutes or so.

I have not yet seen the new dog. The other dogs come out and hurl themselves at the gate when anyone walks past; like crazed, rabid, miniature monsters, they crowd at the gate post, thrusting their tiny jaws through the gaps and snarling fiercely. They biggest of them could probably do some damage to my knee... but I reckon all of them are small enough to drop kick.

But the new dog is kept around the back of the house, in the yard... which backs onto my back window. I went up to the roof earlier to see if I could see the little bastard; but I couldn’t. I think he might have sensed my venomous presence though – as he became even more frenzied than usual.

My question is: do you think I could kill it?!

I’m thinking raw meat, generously dusted in rat poison and thrown over the back wall. You’re shocked, I can tell. But seriously, for the last week, it has not stopped barking! I wake up every morning to it’s yelping, and fall into a tempestuous sleep to sound of it’s snivelling yaps.

Ok, so there’s the Karma thing. I very rarely kill spiders these days – preferring to flick them out the door if I can. In fact, I almost blush to confess it, but I even rescued a woodlouse from drowning in my bathroom sink last week. So I’m really not a naturally murderous person. But I think, although I’m not entirely sure, that I could kill this dog.

There’s retribution to consider: If the people who own it, (the boorish slobs who can’t even be bothered to train their own household pets to behave in a socially acceptable way – they don’t live on a farm! This is an urban area, it’s all residential around here, there must be many people suffering from lack of sleep this week) if these people are unhappy about the death of their horrible dog, then they might also be angry with it’s killer. One assumes these are not people I want to be on the wrong side of. Also, I am one of those old-fashioned Brits, who apologises if someone bumps into me, (presumably I am apologising for using the pavement – I don’t really understand it myself, but it’s an ingrained habit), so I don’t deal with confrontations very well.

Of course I could try and appeal to their good nature and ask them to deal with the dog now – to stop it from barking all the damn time. But lets be honest – if they cared they would be dealing with it already! Here’s the thing: not once in the last week have I heard anyone say ‘shush’. Not once. There’s also the language problem to consider. Of course I could sit down with my dictionary and work out how to say, “Excuse me, but your dog is driving me crazy! Please can you stop it from barking; I have to work and need my sleep; but more importantly I am about to embark on the full Yogic Path (stay tuned for that blog post!) for which I will need a calm and balanced demeanour and it’s hard to have that when I wake up every morning feeling persecuted and indignant. Please, help me!” Yes indeed, I could say all that. And they would reply?

Who knows what they would reply! Because they would reply in rapid, incomprehensible Spanish, the same way everyone replies. And I would stand there, feeling bewildered and ever so slightly foolish. Then I would sigh, and nod my head politely, and walk away... and the barking would continue... unchecked and unabated. And then, if I kill the dog, they’ll know it was me!

As I wrote the last paragraph, someone in a nearby flat has started playing some very loud, very angry Wagnerian Opera. That’s definitely a symptom of a murderous intent! Maybe they will kill the dog? Maybe even tonight! But if they don’t... can I?

Cruel or Kind?

2009-02-01T18:42:00.008-06:00

Sally didn’t want to go in the water. She’d been nervous in the swimming pool during her lesson, but had (I thought) overcome her fears and by the time we finished she seemed fairly relaxed. On the boat she talked non-stop and I wondered if she was going to crack. When I gave the dive briefing, she seemed brittle, but she was still making jokes right up until she realised it was her turn to go in.

"I just don’t want to go in backwards!" she said, pleadingly.
"Backwards is the easiest way. You’re just going to lean back and gently drop into the water. Your jacket is inflated, your going to float! You head will only be under for a few seconds."
"Can’t I just swing my legs over and..." she tailed off as she thought about it. "Don’t push me!" she squealed.
"I’m not going to push you Sally, I’m holding onto you, because I don’t want you to slip over. Whatever you decide to do, I think it’s important that you sit down now"
"Don’t push me!" she squealed at the Boat Captain.
"Fabian is holding onto your tank to make sure you don’t slip over" with perfect timing, at that moment she slipped. Somehow, we caught her. The tanks are heavy and fins are not exactly the best ‘deck shoes’. Usually customers move from the bench to the side of the boat in one movement while the Boat Captain holds the tank, to keep them stable. Sally – plump, middle-aged, petulant, unfit, not-very-strong Sally, was standing in fins, on a rocking boat, with a 20kg tank and refusing to sit on the side, in case one of us pushed her in.

After some intensive reassurance she finally agreed to perch. She still wouldn’t sit properly, on the edge. If she had... can I be honest? Yeah, of course I would have pushed her in. She would have thanked me for it later, they always do! But Sally continued to perch. Poor Fabian was still taking the weight of her tank, standing at a very awkward side-on angle, which clearly wasn’t comfortable for him. It was time for a change of tact.

"Sally, of course you can do this. Now take a deep breath, be strong and lean backwards. Remember how cool you were in the pool?" (she wasn’t) "Remember how much fun you had?" (well, kind of) "Well, it’s going to be exactly the same, only better, in the ocean. Now move back to the edge and go in."
"But can’t I just swing my legs over?"
"I raised one eyebrow "I shouldn’t think so," the side of the boat is thigh high, "can you?"
"Oh! I...."
"Sally! Look at me! You can do this. Now come on..."
"But I don’t think... I don’t know..."

This went on for another minute or so. And yes! I was patient! I alternately reassured and persuaded – but neither was working.

"Right," I said. "No problem, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. Sit down over here and let me help you take the gear off. You can wait on the boat. Don’t worry. Diving isn’t for everyone."
"But I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t go!" she whimpered.

Oh, I see. She wants me to make her do it. Everyone else was in the water waiting. The other Instructor with me pointedly looked at his watch. The more time she wastes on the boat, the shorter the dive is for everyone, since we still have to be back at the Marina at the same time.

Last week I had Karen. Karen also didn’t want to go in the water, but she was persuaded to sit on the side of the boat whilst she thought about it... and then went in quite unexpectedly! Did she over-balance or was she pushed? It’s hard to say! But she said it was easy once she was in. Then, however, she didn’t want to go under. I told her she would be fine and then I took her arm and gently pulled her down with me. She was physically shaking and signaled repeatedly that she wanted to go up. I said 'No'. We got down and after a minute or so she started looking quite cheerful. After five minutes she gave me two 'OK' signals (both hands), which is what I tell them to do if they’re having a good time. After fifteen minutes she gave me a big, overhead 'OK' signal. We use this to signal boats (from a distance) but I tell my customers to use this signal to let me know when they’re having a really, really super-fantastic time! Which, obviously, Karen was! After the dive she hugged me and thanked me for 'the most amazing experience' she’d ever had.

But today it was Sally. She wouldn’t take off her gear, she obviously still wanted to go, but she still wouldn’t sit on the side of the boat.

"You have to decide Sally. If you want to come diving, you have to go in now. Or, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to, you can wait here. But you have to decide"
"But I..."
"What would you like to do?"

She went in. I joined her. Everyone else was impatient to get going. The other Instructor started going down, taking the first three with him. I was left with three: Sally, her ineffectual husband and another guy.

"Right Sally. I’m with you. Are you ready? Put your breather in your mouth and get ready to deflate your jacket. You’re going to be fine, we’re going to take it nice and slowly..."
"Don’t leave me!" she squeaked.
"I’m going to be right next to you the whole way. Now put your breather in and keep it in please"

I gave the signal and took Sally’s hand; the other divers deflated. Sally did not. I reached over and deflated her jacket. She fought hard to stay on the surface, struggling to keep her head up and I could see she’d taken the breather out. I signaled to the Ineffectual Husband and the completely unsympathetic and slightly irritated man who was annoyed at having been stuck with these two, to stay on the line and don’t move. I put my head back up.

"Sally?"
"I can’t do this, I can’t do it!"
"Of course you can. You’re perfectly safe, I’m going to be with you the whole way."
"But... but..."
"Sally, do you want to go diving?" there was a pause.
"Yes"
"Then you need to put your head under the water"

She put her head under the water, but was still kicking to stay up. I gently started to bring her down, but it was no good – she launched herself out of water, squealing "No! No! No!" and started swimming frantically towards the boat. I signaled to Fabian to put the ladder down and he helped her back in.

After the dive I went to speak to her. I told her not to worry or feel bad, that lots of people get nervous; that she should try again sometime.
"But I wanted to go diving today!" she whined, and she glared at me, petulant, full of self-pity... and slightly accusing.

[ps] Welcome to two new readers! Thanks for stopping by!

[pps] I am referring, of course, to my newish "My Readers" space, located just to your right. They have all stood up and been counted (eight, I counted) – will you?! ;-)

A little faith

2009-01-26T16:24:00.002-06:00

So I’m all settled in with my laptop at the Coffee Shop – I have a proper Cappuccino at my side (properly hot and not too frothy); Xtorrent is quietly downloading a movie in the background; Limewire is locating some more Café Tacuba and I have Facebook at the front – but none of my friends appear to have done anything interesting recently! There’s a friend request from someone I haven’t seen since 1993 – isn’t it a funny old world? A few years ago, these people would have been nothing but fading memories and smiling faces in an album that rarely saw the light of day. However these days everyone re-surfaces on Facebook eventually – looking suspiciously like an older and fatter sibling of their former self... but then they probably say the same or worse about me ("I knew she never amount to anything!" Yeah, well, we all knew that!)

I hoping a friend will 'show up' online for a Messenger chat, but first, I have a conundrum: I need the bathroom.

What to do? Do I pack everything away and take it all with me, potentially loosing my seat (and my coffee)? That just seems so unnecessary and petty for a two-minute pee.

So then do I assume that this is a civilised place (it is) and that I’m far enough from the exit (I am) for one of the staff to stop someone trying to stroll out with my laptop? I’m only going to be out of my seat for two minutes after all. On the other hand, am I really going to leave my most beloved and treasured possession (my laptop – yes it is) sitting on a seat, unattended, in a coffee shop? Even for two minutes? One can imagine the reporting the theft to the police:
“So you left the laptop on the seat? Do you think that was a good idea? Really? But you’re insured obviously?”
"Errrrr, well, no actually..."
"But the computer was backed-up?"
"Well yes... I have backed it up... a while ago... I really must do that again actually..."

So perhaps it would be better if I ask someone to watch it for me?

Who? The 20 year old, with the large lotus blossom tattoo – the lotus blossom is a yoga symbol – if she’s a yogi then she must be a good person, right? Yogis don’t lift laptops from coffee shops. Is leaving my laptop in the care of someone, purely based on their choice of tattoo a good idea? But then what should you base an instant personality evaluation on? Clothes? Attitude? Age? At least tattoos are permanent.

Or how about the young, skinny waiter with the artfully styled mohican. He seems very sweet and very hard-working. A decent chap. But then I know what waiters earn around here... perhaps a laptop would be too tempting. On the other hand, I’m broke, and I wouldn’t steal someone’s laptop. I don’t usually tip much. Will he remember me do you think? That women who doesn’t tip much - so why take care of her stuff. Goddamit, you should always tip well – when will I learn! I have 10 years experience behind the apron – I should know better.

So who then? How about the middle-aged man with the very serious face. He’s using one of café’s computers. That means he doesn’t have his own and he might want his own. But he’s middle-aged, and smartly dressed and serious – people like that are reliable aren’t they? Or the rich, older man with the very young girlfriend? No, definitely not: no scruples and no shame.

Ok, so I could ask the waiter to watch my laptop. Now what about my bag? My bag is cheap, but what about my purse? If I take it with me I am clearly stating to the waiter that although he can’t walk off with my laptop in the middle of his shift, he might consider lifting my purse. He’ll definitely hate me then. To be honest the only thing I care about is my laptop, so if I’m leaving that, why worry about the rest?

Do I have faith in the decency of my fellow human beings or should I be an arch realist, assuming the worst? Obviously it feels better to trust – but if I loose my laptop?

Oh well, I can’t put it off any longer - it's decision time.

Overheard in the Dive Shop

2009-01-21T18:34:00.002-06:00

"Are you a certified diver or a beginner?"
"What does that mean?"
"Are you certified? Do you have your certification, your license to dive?"
"I don't know... how would I know?"
"Well... have you ever taken a diving course?"
"I don't know"
"You don't know?"
"If I had done the course, what would I have done?"
"You would have learnt how to dive"
"Oh right, then no, I haven't."

Sparkling White Bright Light

2009-01-12T18:49:00.004-06:00

"Lean against the wall" she said, "because we’re going to be here a long time. In a moment you’re going to see a Sparkling White Bright Light spiralling around your body, think of it like a plunger – just as you" (she motioned) "pump a block sink to get all the bad stuff out, so this Sparkling White Bright Light is going to enter your body through your nose and remove all that you don’t need."

'Just because I don’t need it, I still might want it' I mused to myself as I adjusted my position, trying to imagine what might be comfortable for the next hour of total stillness. Yes, I attended my first Meditation Class this week. The teacher was a slight, blonde woman with a mid-Atlantic accent. My guess would be Home Counties via California. She seemed nice in an intense, hippy-dippy, oh-so-serious kind of way. But when she told us how long she’d be teaching (nearly 20 years) I realised that she was much, much older than she looked and I am oh-so-impressionable by women who have, somehow, managed to hold back the onslaught of time (my yoga teacher is another) – for these miracles, I will happily do as I’m told.

I closed to eyes and tried to imagine a spirally bright light. Catherine wheels and sparklers, toffee apples and bonfire night at Godswell House with a massive bonfire; fear that there might be hedgehogs inside it (I’d seen it on Blue Peter) and my mother assuring me there was not. How did she know?

"Feel the light moving down through your lungs and all the way into to your body, focus on anything you want to get rid of... anything that made you worried or uncomfortable this week..."

Oh that horrible awkward silence on the bus. Why couldn’t I have sparkled then? I should have been wittier. "L’espirit de escalier" they call in it in France: the spirit of the stairs – all the interesting and amusing retorts that you think of just as your are making your way towards the exit. Damnit. If I’d been wittier I bet he would have called me...

"Now I want you to imagine a golden light and as the Sparkling White Bright Light is released from your body, a Golden Healing Light is going to enter..."

Oh yes, I’d forgotten about the light. Sorry, what colour are we on now? Oh yes, releasing the sparkly stuff... my neck hurts, what about if I move a little. Oops, I opened my eyes... that girl over there looks weird, why is she leaning so far forward like that? She can’t be comfortable – do you think she’s asleep? I wonder if she’ll fall over and crack her head on the floor...

"and the golden light is going to fill your body, like a warm syrup..."

I’m not buying any chocolate on the way home. Some rice and cauliflower and that’s it. No chocolate and no cookies... I really need to eat more vegetables. Did I buy oranges yesterday? If I did, I didn’t eat any of them... again. What?

"You might have strong emotions as a result of this session, you might feel very vulnerable, but accept that people who make you vulnerable are teaching you something about your own strengths and weaknesses and appreciate them for that..."

...and I’m going to do all my Spanish Homework tonight, I’m not going to leave it till tomorrow and I’m going to read through all my verbs and I’m going to switch my phone back into Spanish... oh? Have we finished? Oh right.

"Thank you so much, that was very interesting. Yes, of course I’ll come next week! Thanks again!"

I wonder how old she is really...

Sunday Morning Coming Down

2009-01-05T17:49:00.005-06:00

I woke up Sunday morning with a filthy hangover. Drinks the previous afternoon had ended well into the early hours of the morning and during the course of the night I had rediscovered my love of Caribbean Rum. I had a moment’s peace, thinking I might just stay here all day without moving... then I remembered! I had to be somewhere in... oh no! Forty minutes! Because we were going out looking for Bull Sharks!

I hadn’t given much thought to where we were meeting, but was surprised when I realised it was Downtown. Still, I found a place to sit and patiently waited for my friends to arrive and wake me up again. J had his truck, which was fantastic, so our tanks were carried down to the beach whilst we staggered. All but two of us had been out the night before, so we made an odd, reservoir dogsish, kind of crew: swaggering down the street in dark wetsuits, dark glasses and self-pitying grimaces.

Arriving at the beach we geared up and started walking to our entry point. I can’t tell you how hot it is inside a 5mm rubber wetsuit, walking on soft sand, carrying a 20 kilo tank and full gear at 10.30am in the tropics, with a hangover. I have rarely been so happy to finally get in the water. And it was only once I got into the water that I really paid attention to where we were. Basically right out the front of the main beach in town. We swam along to Pier to get to our dive site. For the first part of our surface swim we were accompanied by excited children, but not for long. It was a good half-kilometre to our dive site. Which is a long way.

But finally we got there, and after a quick wave and head count someone shouted “are we going then?” and we quickly slipped beneath the surface. It was clear and cool down there, and as always, all became right with the world. If you don’t dive, then I cannot explain to you the feeling of absolute tranquility that comes over you as you drop gently beneath the waves. It’s still my favourite thing to do, ever, anytime, even (and in fact, especially) on a Sunday morning with a filthy hangover.

Photo from Cancun Aquasports

It didn’t take long, to find what we were looking for. Within five minutes we came across our first Bull Shark. They’re fat, monstrous, medieval looking sharks! With large mouths and a fabulous sinuous swimming motion. They were very relaxed that morning; just cruising the area and we were able to watch them for some time. The nearest coming within three metres of me, and at one point we were watching three at once. I don’t think any of us wanted to come up, even on our safety stop we could see the sharks circling below us! Once we reached the surface, after many excited squeals, and ‘oh my god”s and ‘how cool”s and ‘how many”s’, it was W who finally said, “We should probably get moving, it seems there are sharks in these waters!”

And so began the long swim back to the beach, needless to say, the hangover kicked back-in fairly quickly. When we finally reached the shore, I was reminded of Amityville Island and felt a bit reluctant to answer when a young father, with bucket in hand, asked me what we’d seen. But R was too excited and strolled cheerfully back along the sand shouting, “Sharks! Sharks! Lots of really big sharks!” to anyone who so much as looked his way. I couldn’t help thinking the holiday spirit was slightly dampened by our presence.

After carrying back, breaking the gear down and rinsing, I felt my last ounce of energy slowly drain away. I waved my goodbyes and was back in bed by lunchtime.

New Year Resolve

2008-12-30T20:33:00.005-06:00

1. Blog more often

Yeah, that was a Resolution last year too... did I stick to it? No, not really. Certainly not for the last two months. Sorry about that. So why the Radio Silence? Well, basically I’ve been sulking. Mexico is great, I like it here... but things have not really been going to plan. Why can’t everything always be easy?! But I am sticking it out – I am not packing my bags and saying "sod-it I’m outta here" as I would have done at any other time in the last 10 years – nope – I am settling in and making the best of it. Because I am a grown-up and that is, I believe, what grown-ups do (growns-up? groan up? hmmmm).

2. Stop sulking

Because grown-ups don’t do that, do they?

3. Speak Spanish

It’s all about Spanish. With Spanish I can get a better job. With Spanish I can meet more people. With Spanish I can join in the conversations and jollity amongst The Beautiful People at work. With Spanish I might even be able to get my Boiler fixed before the end of the year ("Which one?" you ask, with a wry smile. "Oh bugger off, it’s not funny", I reply sulkily.)

4. Stop being intimidated by The Beautiful People

I work in a posh hotel; I work next door to the Entertainment Team. It’s like working on the set of Baywatch, the Latino Version. I like to think of them as Redcoats, it makes me feel slightly less intimidated. But it doesn’t change the fact they’re all beautiful, vivacious, speak several languages and can dance, sing and flirt for Mexico. Which is good, because that’s exactly what they’re paid to do. They do kayaking and biking in the morning; water aerobics, rifle-shooting and Name That Tune at lunch time; they teach Tennis, Pottery, Pre-Hispanic history and the Merengue in the afternoon (if you’re imagining a Latino Johnny Castle – he’s here) and in the evening they put on a Cabaret. At about 11am they mooch about, complain about the tips and attempt (with increasing exasperation) to speak to me Spanish. They’re very nice, but they scare me a bit.

5. Learn to love chillies

They put chilli on pineapple! They put it on rice pudding! They put it on cucumber, melon and chocolate cake! They even put chilli in their beer! Seriously! In beer!

Ok, the pineapple thing actually works really well – but beer! I went out for Christmas Drinks with my work colleagues last week (to a local bar on the highway: a windowless shack in perpetual gloom, decorated with faded sepia photos of men with extraordinary mustaches. The house band started at 4pm and had a combined age of 130. There were two of them. The waitresses had a combined weight of about 700 lbs. There were three of them. I tangoed with our Mayan Boat Captain, to Mexican ‘Om-pah’ music, played on an electronic keyboard and full sized drum kit. The beers were cheap, the food was delicious and the service was beyond compare. Our Mayan Boat Captain also danced with each of the Waitresses in turn – it was like watching a tugboat manoeuvring an oil tanker. At the end of the evening our Mayan Boat Captain told me he was going to ‘take the stars from the sky and give each one to me’... or something along those lines. He told me in Spanish and I didn’t understand much. One of our Divemasters translated and getting quite emotional, with moistened eyes, he exclaimed,
"If only you could understand what he is saying to you! It’s so beautiful, I think I might be falling in love with him!" Suffice to say, it was an excellent night.) But there was a point to this story! Really there was! When they bought our excellent bar snacks (ceviche, grilled chicken, and some other stuff that I didn’t recognise but ate a lot of) they also bought Salsas. There was a green one. As I dipped my corn chip, more than a few pairs of expectant eyes rested on me and I guessed it was going to be hot. I tasted it. Carefully. Seventeen seconds later my head exploded. But I handled it well, necked my cold beer and lived. Whilst I coughed, spluttered and explored the inside of my mouth with my tongue, wondering why I couldn’t feel anything, I watched one of the Instructors, take a spoon, spoon a generous dollop onto his tortilla and eat the lot in one mouthful without a flicker.

6. Move house

Because sadly, I can’t afford my current place. It seems Meanwhile Time Flies has also been Credit Crunched and, alas, there just aren’t enough tourists to go around. So it’s time to tighten the old belt here in Mexico too. But if I packed my bags, where would I go? I spoke with a tourist earlier today; he was berating the Mexicans and us foreign workers for being "oblivious" to the troubles that the USA is currently undergoing. I informed him that I earnt US$100 for the last 2 weeks work and that I’m making more than many of my colleagues; I reminded him that everyone here works for commission-only, so many days it actually costs us money to come to work; I pointed out that since tourism is the only industry in this area, there are no other jobs. I assured him that nobody here is, in any way, oblivious to America & Europe’s economic woes and then I asked him how he was enjoying his holiday? Bastard didn’t even tip.

"And nothin' really rocks and nothin' really rolls and nothin's ever worth the cost"

2008-11-08T20:19:00.003-06:00

On the bus to work this morning, we were screaming down the highway at a fairly tranquil (by local standards) 150kph, when I was alarmed to notice that our bus driver was enjoying a rather delicious looking breakfast of rice, beans and scrambled eggs. He was holding a bowl in one hand and his spoon in the other. He was spooning-in his breakfast whilst controlling the bus with his two pinkie fingers, which were resting lightly on the wheel. What do you do?! It’s one of those situations where you can’t watch! My heart was in my mouth... but at the same time you can’t NOT watch!

A few minutes after I first noticed this we came to a sudden halt to pick up another passenger. We stopped for the necessary 8.5 seconds required to open and close the door, and then we were away, attempting lift-off. As far as I could see, the driver, took the money, handed out a ticket and gave change, without actually putting down his breakfast. He did, I hasten to add, stop eating. Not to do so, would have been rude.

Last week, I was staying with a friend in Cancun. One morning whilst on our way to work, he mentioned that this particular highway is one of the most infamous in Mexico.
“At least one person dies here every week,” he said, whilst driving a casual 50kph over the speed limit. He was about to continue, when he realised he hadn’t yet contacted the office for today’s schedule. He quickly sent his text. Then he added,
“Particularly this part! Very dangerous! Many crashes!”
“Why do you think that is?” I asked wryly.
“Because the road is too straight,” he said, “people just don’t pay attention. Can you pass my tacos?”

This afternoon, on the way home, we were overtaken by a single, smoking tyre.

I am speaking in my head in Spanish

2008-11-02T13:23:00.006-06:00

I have taken to talking to myself in Spanish. I hope it helps - although... first sign of madness and all that! Surely talking to yourself in an inadequate second language is a fair way down the trail!

Since my Spanish is not very good - I then (also in my head) back translate to find out exactly how stupid I sound. This definitely doesn't help.

Estoy hablando en mi cabeza en Español. Espero que esto ayude – aunque... el primero signo de locura y todo esto! Seguramente para hablar conmigo en mi inadecuada idioma segunda es una buena empieza!

Desde mi español es no muy bien – entonces (tambien en mi cabeza) atras traduzco para descubrir exactamente como estupido yo sueno. Este definitivamente no ayude.

I am speaking in my head in Spanish. I hope that this helps – although... the first sign of madness and all this! Surely to speak with me in my inadequate language second is one good beginning!

Since my Spanish it is not very well – I then (also in my head) behind translate to discover exactly as idiot I sound. This one definitively does not help.

ps. If you enjoy this blog, please look underneath the 'About Me' section on your right - you will notice a new gizmo called 'My Readers'. Please become a Follower! It will make me feel cool, special and beloved (and no, I'm not even going to attempt that in Spanish!)

If Stalin and Chairman Mao had decided to branch out from Gulags, into the Airport business – they would have built JFK.

2008-10-22T11:52:00.005-06:00

During yesterdays long packing, re-packing and general sorting bonanza, I came across a folder containing copies of some emails I sent back from the United States during my last visit. I was quite amazed by just how vitriolic and angry they were. I thought, ‘gosh, it’s only been seven years, but I have really mellowed in that time. I am sure I am far more tolerant and relaxed these days.’ There was one email, I particularly liked, sent to my friend Chris detailing the more fanciful, touchy-feely, embracing-the-inner-child-ness of American culture. The conclusion of this email was my decision to “accept and affirm my bitter disposition”. Oh how I sniggered at that.

However, in the spirit of that email, I now feel the need, as I sit on the plane from New York to Miami, mentally preparing myself for today’s second dose of the Land Of The Free, to accept and embrace my inner (and indeed outer) vitriol and fury, and clearly state for the record: I HATE THE USA! HOW MAY I COUNT THE WAYS?*

We were over an hour late into JFK. Obviously this was not the USA’s fault, I merely state it as fact. However, upon arriving I had to go through Passport Control, to collect my checked bags; go through Customs; transport them to Departures; check them in again and finally go back through Passport Control. What on earth was the point of that? Hmmm? I have been on many connecting flights in the past, have changed planes and airlines at Hong Kong, Dubai and Bangkok, amongst other airports. And on each occasion my bags have been transferred for me; and I have been able to lounge around inside the customs area whilst waiting for my connecting flight. But no, not so here.

Did I mention I spent nearly an hour queuing at Passport Control? There were six desks open for the 200 or so passengers. In addition, there was 20 or so Uniforms striding around in a purposeful manor, patrolling the queue.

My interview bought the usual questions, but also one more question, which left me utterly bewildered: I simply did not know how to answer it. Even now, having given it some thought I still don’t know how to answer it. We started with a mundane query as to why I had no US address (really). I explained I was only passing through. The Official was quite bemused by that.
“So Mexico,” he said “why you going there?”
“Just travelling” I replied.
“You got friends or family there?”
“No”
“You mean you’re going ON YOUR OWN?”
“Yes”
“Oh… ok then.”
“So,” he started flicking through my passport “you been to a lot of places… (whistle) a LOT of places… all these places on business?”
“No, just travel”
“None of them on business?”
“No”
“Oh… (Pause, and here it came, the question that rendered me speechless,) “Why you been to so many places?”

You know, it has never occurred to me that I needed a reason.

But before I get too superior, he then moved on to official business:
“Please place the index finger of your left hand on the pressure pad there.” I was uncertain,
“Is this my index finger?” I asked.
“Yes ma’am, but that is also your right hand”
“Oh yes.”

I went to collect my bags: one big backpack, one even bigger dive bag. I went to get a trolley, there were all locked up! They cost $3 (in coins) to rent! I was beyond livid. I asked a random Uniform why, when I was coming from the UK, to Mexico, could I possibly be expected to have loose change in US currency. She agreed it was unfortunate, but there was nothing to be done. I felt like I was the first connecting passenger to have this problem, for there was no way to get a trolley, and I had to drag my bags behind me (Ok, I could have worn the backpack, but I was making a point!) past the rows of locked trolleys, through the massive Arrivals hall, through Customs and then around and into Departures. Along the way, something strange occurred: It was partly my mood, but also my physical gait – hunched over, dragging heavy weight behind me – somehow… I turned into Gollum:

“They tricksss us, gollum, they tricks us! They has trolleys, but not for the likes of ussssss, gollum. Only Yankeessssss gets trolleys… nasty, fat Yankeesssss. No trolleys for Limeysssss, poor Limeyssss…. gollum”

“Where’s your trolley?” asked an overweight and completely unprepared Official at the customs desk. I hit him with 30 seconds of pure abject rage on the subject of trolleys. It is a reflection of just how scary I was at this point, that he literally took a step backwards and waved me through without saying one word in response.

I arrived at the Luggage Check-in, spitting and snarling like cornered wildcat.
“Couldn’t you get a trolley?” asked the completely unprepared and quite defenceless girl on the desk. I think it’s safe to say she has never regretted asking a question so much. I handed over my bags and she directed me to the other check-in desk, to get my boarding pass. She did not ask to see any documentation or ID. Straightening up and turning on a sixpence, I instantly became Fawlty.

“Don’t you want to see my ticket? No, of course not, silly me. You'll want to see my passport then? No? No ID necessary! I see, I see. Do you even want to know my name? No, of course you don’t. Are you even going to label my bags? There already labelled are they? Oh super. All the way to Cancun?** Oh they are? Oh good… that’s great… then why the blazes couldn’t one of your baggage handlers bought them around here ON A TROLLEY?”

I stalked towards the second Check-in desk, practically begging someone to ask me why I was so late. I have to give credit where it’s due, the staff on the second Check-in were soothing, calm and polite and dealt with me very well. They also checked me in very, very quickly.

“Lovely! Thank-you so much” I said to the nice man. This is something I have noticed about Americans – they have a terrible weakness for the word “lovely” – it’s gets them every time. English people! If you are ever in a sticky situation in the USA just try to find a way of working the word “lovely” into the conversation. Even the most hardened, Sipowitz-wannabe will go a bit gooey round the edges.
“Have a safe trip,” said the nice man.
“I’m sure it will be lovely” I replied, quite deliberately, to see if I could get a smile. It worked, he practically melted. He was handsome after all, and it’s always worth a bit of effort to make a handsome man smile.

I was feeling quite upbeat until I rounded the corner into a scene from Mao’s Long March: endless queues of weary, battle-worn proles, trudging around a room. Amongst them, striding up and down the isles, with loud voices, polished buttons and big sticks were several fat Security Officers.
“People people, you need your boarding pass AND passport in your hand as you APPROACH the desk… all liquids must be drunk, thrown away or you must LEAVE THE BUILDING… no shoes, belts, jewellery of ANY kind…. Remove any an all of the following items from you bags…. AND KEEP IT MOVING PEOPLE”

I had reached the infamous Homelands Security Checkpoint. When my turn eventually came, I nervously confessed to still wearing a silver bangle, explaining that I never take it off because it is too tight.
“You’ll remove that item if you want to board the plane ma’am” replied the Officer. I forced it over my knuckles and handed it too him. He glared at it, with his full and undivided attention, for a full nanosecond before returning it too me and waving me on.

I turned and received a face full of abuse for not placing my laptop IN A SEPARATE TRAY.
“AND is THIS your HAND LUGGAGE?” asked the fat, indignant hobbit.
“Yes”
“WHAT in HELL have you got IN HERE?”
“It’s a regulator”
“It’s A WHAT?”
“A Regulator…. It’s diving equipment.”
“YOU GOT DIVING EQUIPMENT!”
“Yes”
“ONLY THIS? WHERE’S THE REST?”
“In my other bag, I already checked it in”
“BUT YOU DINT CHECK THIS… THIS… RE… RE… THING IN?”
“No, I didn’t check that in”
“OH… WELLLLLLL…. Ok then.”

“What next?” I snarled at no one in particular.

What next is Miami. I have been told that I will have to go through Customs again. Ha! I only have an hour between flights this time! But apparently my bags will be transferred automatically. What next is Mexico, and it can’t come a minute too soon. Vive la Revolution!

*By this I do, of course, mean the State, the machine - not the people, who are often lovely!
**I arrived last night, my bags finally arrived this afternoon.

Tea Rage

2008-09-07T05:35:00.004-06:00

There are very few things in this life that can render me incandescent with rage. My ex-boyfriend had his moments; as does the Daily Mail. Pompous newsreaders can make me shout at the TV; as does that stupid advert which promises to make your clothes smell of "white diamonds" – but I can still retain a sense of humour and perspective about all of these. However, there are some very small creatures that can bring me from total calm to abject fury, in under 30 seconds, every time.

Wasps.

Wasps are just... just... (Sorry, bear with me a moment - I have to take a few deep breaths and try to swallow the savagery that is already bubbling up inside me.) Right... I mean, what is the POINT of wasps?

My Dad and I felt we needed a bit of ‘cultcha’ the other day. So we decided to visit a nearby National Trust property. But you know how these places are: apart from the woods, the lake, the deer, the swans, the gardens, the Manor and the 15th Century Brewery (still functioning!) there really wasn’t much see – so after a while we thought we’d go for a Cream Tea. The Old Orangery was your typical National Trust Tea Shop: staffed by several old ladies called Edith and Hilda, all wearing Kevlar knitwear and serving cakes and pastries that would put your average 5-Star Chef to shame.

The Cream Tea (my first, and last, this summer I promise) was superb: delicious scones* with succulent sultanas, lovely strawberry jam and REAL clotted cream. Throw in a nice pot of Earl Grey and what more could you want? My Dad and I walked away, with our over laden trays, feeling very content. We rolled our eyes dismissively at the folks hunched over too-small tables, squashed inside the steamy shop – we are made of hardier stuff! We remembered to bring our anoraks and after all, it is bloody summer – we were going to sit OUTSIDE!

The first wasp appeared within moments, but he was alone for a while. We idly swatted him away and made jokes about ‘those people’ who make a fuss about wasps. Within two minutes there was a dozen of them. Remember the scene in "1984" when the rats are trying to get at Richard Burtons face? It was a bit like that, only without the handy cage. In desperation Dad ate half a scone in one mouthful. I was forced to eat mine standing-up, whilst circling the table and battling the wasp battalion with a windmill-type arm motion. Dad came up with the brilliant plan of abandoning our tea and sitting on the table next to it. I pointed out that we couldn’t really enjoy our tea from the neighbouring table. Dad retorted that we weren’t really enjoying our tea now and furthermore, I was frightening the small children who had gathered to watch.

We decided to go inside the warm, cosy and wasp-free Tea Shop. It was full. However we seemed to have lost most of them when we beat our retreat... all but one, who had got his legs stuck in my strawberry jam. Bastard. We finished sulkily and left. Wasps eh? As the late, great E. L. Wisty said: "Wasps were a mistake."

*How do you say it? Are you a Scon or a Scoane person? Isn’t it funny that everyone always thinks the other pronunciation is posher than their own! Or is it just a North-South thing?

On Western Culture & Crayfish

2008-08-11T07:53:00.008-06:00

So I’ve been back in the UK for nearly two months now – potential blog topics have come and gone – the problem being that things that seem so novelty, so intriguing at first glance become mundane after a very short time. The most amazing thing when I first returned was supermarkets. I remember sitting in a bar in the Philippines not so long ago, chatting with a Filipino friend about them – I told him that in British supermarkets there is sometimes 10 or 15 aisles stretching from here all the way to the beach (he looked unconvinced) I told him that one of those aisles would contain every kind of fruit and vegetable you could imagine and another aisle would be completely filled with breakfast cereal! He laughed; "No" he said, "it is not possible!"

My first trip to Sainsburys was amazing, I was like a small child let loose in a sweet shop, or a person who lives in the developing world let loose in a supermarket. But now... well, in the end I was raised here and although I still make an effort to appreciate just how lucky I am, it all seems very normal. My trips to Sainsburys are no longer accompanied by breathless excitement, which I expect my Dad is quite pleased about.

Bird song, also, swept me off my feet. My little island paradise was too small for birds. The first morning I was awake at some ridiculous time, open mouthed wondering what on earth was making that strange noise. It took more than a few awakening moments to realise it was the dawn chorus. For nearly a week the dawn chorus would wake me up, but now my brain has remembered it and filters it out and I awake feeling slovenly at about 9am instead. Whilst in France recently I was cycling through a small farm one morning and was startled by the sound of a cockerel. It was like a flashback: in the Philippines Cock Fighting is a national sport – there were at least 200 cockerels living within 50 metres of my home. For months, when I first arrived in the Philippines, they would keep me awake night and day until I got used it. Hearing that cockerel in France took me right back to early furious morning dreams in Malapascua, when I would awake desperate to get my hands on a machine gun to enact some poultry carnage.

But there is one area where the novelty hasn’t worn off and that is trees. Trees are fantastic. On Boracay there is scrub or Palm Trees. Now don’t get me wrong – the palm tree is a glorious thing – tall and elegant, moving as one with the elements. But in the UK are trees are so much richer: from the window right now I can see an immense Weeping Willow, maybe 10 metres high, it towers above the surrounding houses like a benevolent deity. I never understood the human propensity to worship an insubstantial spirit that can’t be seen or imagined, but Animism I understand very well. In our local market town, standing on either side and dwarfing a capacious Church are two magnificent Beech Trees. They must be 20 metres high, verdant and buxom. They delight me every time I pass by.

It has made me think that I perhaps should add another requirement to my ever-lengthening list of stipulations for the place where I eventually settle: it should be somewhere that gives good tree.

I have just returned from a camping trip in France (excellent trees) and two things struck me about La France. Firstly, that it is just so goddamn French. You see none of the generic 'western' architecture and shop fronts that you see in so many places. Perhaps the cities are different, but in the countryside where I was, there is no mistaking, not for one minute, which country you are in. That impressed me – in a world of increasing global homogenisation, le Français are hanging on with considerable perseverance to their national identity. Vive La France!

However the other thing I noticed is that the indubitable inhabitants are strangely invisible! Where are all the French people? We stayed just outside a picturesque little town with a fully stocked main street and square, but each time I cycled around it I expected to see tumbleweed drifting down the street – where is everyone? At night there is a populace but where to they all go during daylight? And I include weekends in this.

There have been other delights this summer: French cheese was every bit as delicious as I remembered – and all my clothes have now shrunk as a result. And I was excited to find a wild crayfish in a river in France. Wild? It was furious. (Was I so delighted by the crayfish because it's a marine animal? The first one I've seen in a while and oh yes, I am missing my oceanic friends.) Hot showers remain the crowning triumph of the First World (and the corporate-driven Media remain our greatest disgrace). I must admit wearing jeans again is kind of nice and even long sleeves have some novelty value. The long evenings would be great if we could be outside enjoying them - but that's British summers for you.

Now, as the summer draws to an end, I suppose I must start thinking about all the things I want to do before I leave and, of course, where to go next. It seems the job I was hoping for, for next season, will not be available... and so the doors are open once again. Where next? Back to the Philippines or is it, perhaps, time for something completely different? After all, the world is my crayfish!

Long Haul (2)

2008-06-20T10:12:00.002-06:00

I was about half way through my journey, sitting on the toilet (don’t worry, that’s all the detail you’re gonna get), when it occurred to me that this was probably one of the worst journeys I have made.

Leaving the Philippines was the tough part: I had assumed my ride to the Port would be late and factored that in; I was prepared for some consternation at Caticlan Airport regarding the amount of luggage I was carrying and had bought extra pesos and a bright smile in preparation. I travelled on an early flight to ensure I would have plenty of time to sort out potential problems at Manila... unfortunately I lost my head start due to the airport shuttle being so late. Incidentally, the airport shuttle was run by two, very cheerful, Black Sabbath fans. So my journey to Terminal 1 was accompanied by Paranoid at full volume, complete with singing along and air guitar (yes, from the driver), which was quite surreal.

The problems started at Manila check-in. They couldn’t check me in because I had too much luggage, no it wasn’t about money, and they might not be able to allow me on the flight. They had to check with the BA representative... who wasn’t here. This was not good.
"Come back later," they said. I hovered next to check-in looking anxious. Finally the BA Rep arrived; he said he would look in the Operations Manual. I suggested it would be quicker to ring Head Office in Hong Kong. He was quite rebuffed; he said he would find it in the Manual. The Manual looked suspiciously like a coffee table. I pointed out that it was already nearly 5pm and my flight left at 5.55. He looked hurt. 20 minutes passed.

"Is diving gear a sporting equipment?" he asked.
"It could be..." I replied warily,
"Because you can get extra 23kg allowance for a sporting equipment"
"Of course it’s sporting equipment!" I said "Great! So can I check in?"

Then, he wanted to call Head Office to confirm. I finally checked in at 5.10 and hurried through to join the queue at Customs. It was a long queue and when I got to the front I was missing one form. Curses. I was sent to join another queue. My paperwork was quickly sorted, but the Official wanted to reprimand me for forgetting the correct paperwork. I grovelled, she lectured... at 5.35 the man behind me in the queue leaned over,

"Excuse me," he said to the Customs Official "but they are calling her name, she has to go!"
"I do really have to go!" I said apologetically, "Do I have to queue again?"
"Yes" said the official, finally giving me passport and steely glare.
"No," said my new friend, he pointed to a small gap at the side of the barrier, "run through there" he said, "they won’t notice."

So I ran through a small gap in the barrier and no one stopped me. International terrorists take note. I reached the Gate at 5.45pm and the Airline staff also reprimanded me. I responded with a steely glare and requested a large Gin & Tonic, which helped.

When I arrived at the Transfer desk in Hong Kong and showed them my ticket, they laughed.
“Oh that flight isn’t going,” she said happily. But they put me up in a hotel (I’ve never stayed in a proper hotel before, it was quite exciting) so it wasn’t too bad. Needless to say, the housekeeping staff were falling over themselves to lock my mini bar - it seems they had me sussed. My stomach problems started that night, oh joy.

The last 12 hours to London actually weren’t as bad as they could have been! I had three seats to myself. That's practically Business Class!

Upon arrival in Blighty, I managed to stay awake until nightfall and woke up the following morning, confused and jet-lagged, to the strangest sound. What is that? I wondered as I slowly regained consciousness. It was loud and unusual, but strangely familiar... it was birdsong. The island, where I’ve been living, has no birds! It’s not something I’ve thought about in ages, and birdsong is something I’ve forgotten to miss. But here it is and it’s lovely.

Sad but true

2008-06-12T21:23:00.007-06:00

I need to write a new blog... but everything is on hold at the moment. On Monday I will fly back to the UK for the Summer. My next blog will be about the wonder of supermarkets.

Cartoon from: Gaping Void

Tubbataha Tale #3

2008-05-15T23:28:00.004-06:00

Day 4 | Dive 2 | Location: Washing Machine

Turtles are very photogenic. Whenever anyone saw a turtle, the photographers would descend in a swarm, taking picture after picture. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy having the pictures afterwards, but at the time sometimes I would like to have a few moments just to enjoy the moment.

Which is why when I found this little turtle, nestled against the reef, I decided to not to tell anyone. Instead I approached very carefully and lay down on the sand next to him. The turtle and I looked at one another. The turtle didn’t look at all impressed – he watched me for a few moments then carried on staring aimlessly at the reef ahead of him. He appeared to be very relaxed and I found that chilling-out next to a turtle is very relaxing. I am usually dubious about 'humanising' marine animals – but the turtle characterisation in ‘Finding Nemo’ was just too perfect! I’m sure all divers loved that. One feels that a turtle is someone who could use the word ‘dude’ and get away with it!

I’m not sure how long I was there before the first photographer arrived... but thank-you, I was a little resentful but now I have the memory to keep so it’s all good (although I must confess, this wasn’t the only turtle sighting that I kept to myself!)

Tubbataha Tale #2

2008-05-14T21:19:00.002-06:00

Day 3 | Dive 1 | Location: Delsan Wreck

I was at -42m, once again the rest of the group were between 7-15 metres above me. Once again, I was in the blue – too far out to see the wall this time. I was checking my direction by watching the other divers above me, to my right. I was looking, once again, for Hammerheads and, once again, I was without success. But there were sharks around, many sharks actually: some beautiful White-tip Reef sharks, some Black-tips also, at least one Bamboo shark and quite a few Grey Reef, even a couple of fairly big ones. I was having a lovely morning!

Most of the sharks were below me, and so that was where I was looking… until I saw something move out of the corner of my eye… I look to up and to my right and there he was – a big shark, directly ahead. It was hard to tell exactly how big – because he was facing me, swimming towards me. I could clearly see the wide mouth and the teeth, which told me he was pretty big. I could see his tail swishing from side to side behind him and suddenly this triggers a memory of something I read recently about Grey Reef sharks: “when disturbed they show typically antagonistic behaviour, such as swimming with exaggerated movements.”

“Big teeth” I mused to myself. Then suddenly it hit me! There was a large shark swimming straight at me! I’m 42m underwater, being approached, at speed, by a large animal with big teeth! Oh!

But I was calm, I stayed motionless, I watched. He swam straight towards me until, at the last possible moment, he made a graceful swerve to the left. As he passed I could see he was, indeed, quite big – nearly 3m. He gave me a dismissive look: If the shark had a voice, it would have sounded like Robert de Niro and it would have said,
“Are you looking at me?”
Either that, or it would have sounded like Stephen Fry and said:
“How disappointing! You looked fatter from a distance.”

Too late, I realised I should have pointed it out to the other divers. It had taken another left swerve and was almost underneath them, I looked up to see my dive buddy already pointing.

Afterwards the Divemaster told me it was an Oceanic White-tip. This is what the Ocean Guide has to say about them:

OCEANIC WHITE-TIP SHARK

Up to 350cm. Pelagic species, only sometimes venturing close to coral reef areas. One of the largest species of the family, it is easily distinguished by it's large rounded dorsal and pectoral fins with broad white tips. This elegant and fast swimmer lacks the hectic movements typical of many requiem sharks. Often accompanied by pilot fish or other sharks. Said to be one of the four sharks most dangerous to humans, but there are no confirmed reports of attacks.

Tubbataha Tale #1

2008-05-13T20:32:00.009-06:00

First, a little marine geography lesson for you: shores lines do not look like this (see fig 1), they look like this (see fig 2). We call these steps ‘Drop Off’s (although we should, since my father will no doubt correct me, call them Drops Off.) When we dive them, we call them walls. We should probably call them cliffs, because that’s what they resemble, but we don’t.

Most Drops Off are fairly tame: in Boracay our first is at -9m, down to about -18m. Following this is a sandy slope (dull) down to about -33m, which then drops to about -60m. This is a good wall – but it’s a quick dive because there are no shallows. It’s straight down and up again, 17 minutes later.

At Tubbataha the Drops Off are majestic. My favourite dive was Black Rock, where the wall starts at -4m and drops down to -70m. For the landlubbers out there, let me give you a sense of perspective – 66m is about a 22 storey building.

Imagine a cliff face 22 storeys high, a vast hanging garden of soft corals, giant gorgonian fans, huge barrel sponges jutting out; schools of bat fish tumbling down it’s sides, bright blue fusilier fish marching across it’s window ledges. Sharks sweeping back and forth, and me – suspended, weightless, mid-water, just trying to take it all in.

Day 2 | Dive 1 | Location: Black Rock

“I might go deep if the conditions are good,” I said to my dive buddy just before we back rolled. He gave me a wink and an ‘ok’.
“You stay below us?”
“Of course!”
“Ok, enjoy. Bang if you see a hammerhead! I will come down for that!”

We dropped straight in on the crest of the wall. The conditions were perfect – maybe 30m visibility. The early morning sunlight was glinting in the shallows, making excellent silhouettes of the triggerfish as we started our descent. I left my dive buddy feverishly taking photos at about -15m. The DM and the less experienced divers all stopped at about -20m. It was a glorious wall, sheer with shelf like layers; on one sandy shelf I saw my first white-tip of the day, snoozing quietly. I moved out, away from the wall, about 6m into the most perfect shade of blue and surveyed the scene. I was at about -30m, looking up at the wall above me, 8 ‘floors’ high and dropping below me for another 14 ‘floors’. I left the crazy Russians* behind at -35m and then it was just me.

At -40m I saw the bottom clearly, still a fair way down. I could see many sharks down there, lazily meandering to and fro. I looked up: the first group looked a long way above me, even the Russians seemed a fair distance. I kept dropping. At -56m my computer bleeped to tell me that was far enough! I have my alarm set to an Oxygen Partial Pressure of 1.4 (or 140%). You can have too much of a good thing: beyond 140% it is possible to ‘overdose’ on oxygen. The cut off point is actually 1.6, but I am a safe diver (honest Dad!), at 1.4 there is a risk, so that’s as far as I go.

I did look longingly at the bottom for a moment though and then up, by now the nearest diver was my buddy 20m above me. I took one last look down and there, with perfect timing was a huge eagle ray. They are a rich wine-red in colour, but at this depth he looked purpley-maroon. I could still clearly make out the white spots across his wings though. He was big, maybe 2m wingspan, with a long tail stretching more than 2m behind him. His ‘flight’ was effortless and looked slow, until he overtook me several seconds later! I tried to keep up and managed to for maybe 30 seconds! By which time my computer started to complain about Deco. One last look around me, up the beautiful wall and at the soft sunlight so far above… and then I started my slow ascent and rejoined the group.

Thanks to Sandy for the excellent photos!

*Obligatory in all diving stories!

Two sleeps until...

2008-05-03T19:15:00.000-06:00

I go on holiday! Hurray! Once again I hear you ask:
"And what does a dive instructor who lives on a remote island do for her holidays?"
Once again I reply, "I’m going to an even more remote spot (note the absence of the word 'island') to do some diving!" Hurrah and hurray!

I am going to Tubbataha Reef for five whole days. Tubbataha: National Marine Park since 1988, UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1993 and unanimously agreed to be, not just the best diving in the Philippines, but some of the best in South East Asia. Hurrah, huzzah and hurray!

As you can see from the map (thanks Google) Tubbataha is an awful long way from anywhere else. Not just in distance… take another look at the map, note how many cities are marked, how many cities that are big enough to make the map. Not many. Palawan (the big island to the west) is remote. Tubbataha is the edge of the world.

And what do I hope to see? Well I am keeping everything crossed for hammerhead sharks. I have seen one, once before, and have never forgotten it... but that's another story!

Some manta rays would also be fine. I expect to see lots and lots and lots of fish: the area has never been over-fished, because no one has ever lived there, and since 1988 there’s been no fishing at all. This is going to be the nearest thing to pristine that I have ever seen. Because there are no islands (just a few sandbanks at low tide) Tubbataha is home to many pelagic (big ocean-going) animals and as you can see from the map, there is a dramatic drop off very close by – the deeper the water, the bigger the fish. There are sometimes whale sharks and even (can I dare to hope?) whales seen at Tubbataha.

I plan to do four dives a day. I am told some will do five – but I am not sure if I can take that pace! I was anticipating doing at least one night dive... but when talking to a friend recently he cheerfully told me of his own experience:

"Of course the fish are drawn to your light and the sharks follow the fish," he said. "So don’t be surprised to turn your light and find yourself surrounded by very big sharks!" He grinned, "and they look so much bigger up-close and in the dark!"

Hmmmmm. Back on the 12th – watch this space!

There, but for the NHS, go I

2008-04-30T00:10:00.003-06:00

I was born with a bone condition in my feet. Not that you’d know that – obviously I have some scarring from assorted operations, but aside from that there’s very little visible evidence. Perhaps I don’t walk as straight as some, but I am completely mobile and active. The bone condition I suffered from is serious and unusual. I have only encountered three other people in my life with the same condition.

The first one I barely remember, but my parents remember it very well. I was a small child, maybe three or four. At this stage I think I was still a bit wobbly and my feet were still a bit twisted, but the early operations had been successful and all was progressing well. The surgery I had was innovative: the night I was born there was an Orthopaedic Conference in progress at a nearby town. The Doctor on call realised what I had and contacted the hotel, he reached one of the country’s leading Orthopaedic surgeons and asked if he would be interested in my case. He was, and as a result the surgical treatment I received was second-to-none and somewhat experimental.

But I digress; one morning in the park my parents and I encountered another family, with a daughter just a few years older than me, with the same condition. She was in a wheel chair and had those big, ugly black boots that make me think of Oliver Twist. I remember being quite scared at the sight of her and running away to play. My Dad remembers standing there in tears as both sets of parents realised that I was walking and she would not.

In 2002 I was living in Honduras. I used to swim every morning before work and most mornings I would be accompanied by a little girl of about 11 years old. She was a great swimmer with a bright smile and after swimming I would often play water frisbee with her and her sister. I had known this child for more than a month before I saw her out of the water and saw her feet. They were twisted in and backwards; she walked, awkwardly and painfully, on the tops of her feet. She had the same condition as me.

Did she know somehow? Did she seek me out for some reason? It certainly felt like that. One Sunday I saw her picnicking with her family. It was her father who stood up to shake my hand, then looked at my feet, pointed at my scars, pointed at his daughter and said, nervously, "same same?" I nodded and the tears welled up in his eyes. In Spanish he asked, "free hospital?" I said yes. "Where from?" he asked. "Soy Inglesa" I replied. He nodded, there wasn’t much else to say.

I still live in the developing world and get frustrated when people describe it as some tropical paradise where life is ever-easy. Free medical care is a truly breath-taking concept for those that don’t have it. The fact that economic development has enabled certain states to be so rich they can provide it is frankly astonishing to most people here. They cannot imagine such a Utopia.

This morning on my way to work I passed a beggar. I think I may have walked past her before, but I am not sure. Today, just as I was passing she stood up and it was only then that I noticed her feet: twisted inwards and backwards. She had some doctored baseball gloves tied on to protect the tops of her feet as she walked. She was an old lady, tiny in a way that only a lifetime of malnutrition can cause. An obvious lack of even the most basic medical attention (splints) had left her knees and hips crooked as well. Her legs looked contorted and ill-made. She could walk, but the pain was obviously constant and severe. She had that absent look that so many long-term beggars and sufferers have. I gave her money and she thanked me, but she looked right through me. Should I have said something? In the end, what is there to say?

The War on Worms

2008-03-23T23:41:00.005-06:00

Thank you all for the comments, emails and general concern about my worm. To answer your various questions:

I did take a picture - but keep forgetting to upload it. I will do so soon.

Yes, I have been to the doctor - I will start the medication tonight. First I have to sedate the worm and then tomorrow, I will poison it. I need to sedate it first so it doesn't get too erratic when it's poisoned. Apparently it can take up to a week to die.

It hasn't moved much in the last day or so.

The doctor thinks I probably got it from walking through dirty water.

No, I haven't given him a name. However, after discussion last night a number of my friends have decided to call it William.

LATER! Here he is!

You probably don't want to know this, but

2008-03-18T23:19:00.003-06:00

I have of late, wherefore I know not how, acquired a new friend – a close companion, one might say. It all started about two months ago when I developed a rash. I realise in these modern times that the rash usually follows the close companion, rather than precedes it – but in this case, I assure you, the rash came first.

It was not an alarming rash, just a small itchy patch on my foot. I’m afraid rashes (and skin fungi) are part of life when you work in the ocean (and you thought I had such a glamorous life), so I didn’t think too much of it. In fact, I still had some cream left over from the last rash, so I started applying – end of story.

Except, the rash didn’t go away. It occurred to me that perhaps I had not been dutiful enough about applying my cream; I also considered that I had been busy at work, and so in the water an awful lot. To be honest though, I only ever thought about it for a minute or so, and only every now and then.

But the rash was doing something! It was slowly spreading up my foot, towards my ankle. I say spreading... but actually it wasn’t getting any bigger, it was just moving. I mentioned this to a friend a few weeks ago; he made a scathing comment about not even being able to put cream on properly.

Last week I decided to stop bothering with the cream. It simply wasn’t working. I would experiment and see how ‘doing nothing’ worked out. The rash started getting a little smaller. "Aha!" I said! "Doing nothing works! I should do this more often!" Upon reflection, I thought that if I dedicated any more time towards ‘doing nothing’ I would be in danger of slipping into a coma, and so decided against it.

The rash, however, wasn’t going. It was getting smaller, but harder and more raised. It was condensing into a lump. Last night whilst watching TV I got fed up of it. I sterilised a needle and pierced the lump. Twice. Nothing came out. It was very unsatisfactory.

However, this morning whilst indulging in an early morning, absent-minded scratch, I noticed the lump had got smaller! "Aha!" I said in delight! (I am easily pleased) "The needle did work!"

Then I looked more carefully. It was true, the lump had got smaller, but it was also spreading again... well kind of... it was just longer... more stretched out...

Stretched out... oh! Then it dawned on me. A nasty slow realisation, like having a glass of very cold water, slowing dripped down the back of your neck. "It’s not a rash," I thought, "It’s a creature!"

It’s a worm. Poor bloody thing: that cream must have been driving it mad! It climbed all the way up to my ankle to get away from it. When I stopped putting the cream on, my little wormy friend probably curled up for a snooze. Only to be rudely awakened with a hot needle. Twice. Not surprising he’s decided to move on again. He’s on top of my foot now. Resting. And now that I realise what it is – I can quite clearly see his wormish shape just underneath the skin. I don’t know why I didn’t see him before. (By the way, I am aware that I am referring the worm as ‘he’. I am not sure why that is; I didn’t plan to do so – that’s just the way I wrote it. But I am sure it says something very depressing and negative about my psyche – and is probably connected in some significant way to the reason that I am nearly always single.)

I asked a Filipino friend this morning:
"Ronny," I said, "Are there worms that can get inside your skin around here?"
Ronny jumped and instinctively looked back over his shoulder in alarm. "Are there what?!" he said, with absolute horror.
"Look at this!" I showed him my foot. He laughed.
"Oh!" he said cheerfully "there is a worm inside your skin! My friend have one before."
"I thought so!" I said.
"You should put some cream on that" he said.

Computers are stupid

2008-02-21T20:58:00.003-06:00

It’s 2.00am and I have spent the last five hours trying to teach myself web design. I suppose it was expecting a bit much to be making any reasonable progress or showing any competency after only five hours... but I’m afraid that’s exactly what I was expecting. No patience that’s my problem, that and lack of focus, resolution and basic organisational skills.

I spoke with my father on Skype tonight – ah, the miracles of modern communication – half way through our chat I turned the computer around to show him the sunset behind me! Technology moves so fast: I remember when I got back to the UK in 2003; I thought the whole country had gone mad. It was three weeks before someone explained hands-free phones to me – I thought everyone was talking to themselves. For three weeks I worried about it, although obviously I didn’t say anything – I didn’t like to ask. I suspect people must feel the same way about Skype now.

When I called my Dad, I realised too late that I was still sat at the bar:
“Sorry!” I said to no one in particular, “It’s too loud here, I’m just going to move tables! How are you anyway? What have you been up to? Can I get another beer please” the Barman looked nervous, unsure whether to get me a drink or fill me in on his day “Nearly there! Oh bugger and I’m on mute…” a man at a neighbouring table was staring, open mouthed “Right! Hello! I’m here!”
“Why are you drinking beer at 10am!” says my Dad “you’d complain if I did that!”
“Because it’s 6pm” I reply tersely “and I’ve just finished work.”
“Oh yes” The flickering image of my father looks vaguely surprised by this. We schedule our bi-weekly conversation either ‘at the normal time’ or ‘two hours later than normal’ – it seems that even after six months of web chats neither of us has managed to fully come to terms with the time difference.
“It’s dark there!” says my Dad, “and you’re outside!”
“Yes,” I say “It’s freezing, I’m wearing long-sleeves!” Remembering he can see me I foolishly point at my sleeve. “Look!”
“Freezing! Ha!” he says and like true Brits we spend the first five minutes of the conversation cheerfully complaining about our respective weather.
“When are you going to write another blog? The last few have been too short”
“Last time you said they were too long”
“Well sometimes they are” says my Dad constructively. “You didn’t write about me coming to visit you!”
“I couldn’t think of anything to say”
“Oh right, thanks very much!”
“Well what could I say? Dad came to visit and we had a really good time – it’s not much of a story, is it?”
“I could’ve written a really good blog about it!”
“Hmmm. Thanks for the email” I say “It was a long one! It must have taken you ages to type that with one finger!” My father offers a few choice words of retaliation, before telling me that actually, he had to give the same news to a couple of people:
“I used the copy and paste!” he says.
“Good! It works then?”
“Well, some of the time...”
“Dad! If it doesn’t work, it means you pressed the wrong key or something...”
“I didn’t!”
“You must have! Computers can only do what you tell them to do. Computers are stupid.”
“They’re not,” retorts my Dad, “they’re cunning little bastards.”

Sadly, I’m beginning to think he might be right. I’ve spent the entire evening trying to teach myself web design and the last three hours trying to work out why the table at the top, which is 760px wide, is bigger than the table underneath, which is 760px wide. Holmes said that once you have ruled out the impossible, whatever’s left, however improbable, must be true. Apparently my spiteful little laptop is playing tricks on me.

So perhaps it will take me more than one evening to teach myself web design.

I remember a wet weekend back in the 1970s:
“What are you going to do today Janey?” asked my Dad.
“I’m going out on my bike,” I said, “unless it rains again. If it rains I’m going to write a play.”

It rained and I wrote two pages. I have them in a box somewhere, I still vaguely intend to finish it. ‘Write a play’: it’s on The List. But first, if it rains again tomorrow, I’m going to teach myself web design.

Hmmmm

2008-02-18T01:58:00.004-06:00

"Oh hi! We're err, like looking for a snorkeling mask!"
"No problem, we have a few different styles..." I talk through the various masks we stock.
"Oh great! So err how much is that one?"
"That's 3,500"
"Ok, and err how much is that one?"
"That one is 2,000"
"So, like, which one is the cheapest?"

The Truth

2008-02-04T20:37:00.001-06:00

Last year I wrote a blog, which extolled the virtues of honest Filipino advertising. I now have a new favourite advert! On TV last night, I saw an ad for a fast-food chain, which finished with the fabulous slogan –

“EAT HEALTHY... SO YOU CAN EAT MORE!”

Forcing an Issue

2008-01-30T21:28:00.000-06:00

I’ve had some rotten customers this week. These people are typical of their nation – I know it is often perceived as racist to make observations based on peoples’ cultural identity these days... but these guys are typical... no! I better not.

There are six of them, I think I can say (without giving too much away) that the three men are all in their fifties and strut up and down the beach in tight Speedos, worn low at the front to accommodate their generous beer bellies and pulled up to the waist at the back to compensate. Their wives are all gorgeous, in their twenties and promenade in front of the sun-beds wearing g-strings and dripping with jewellery.

They all have brand new, top-quality diving equipment, which they transport in battered old suitcases – because (so they tell me) if they used proper dive bags, the baggage handlers at Moscow airport would steal the lot... ach! Darn it, now I’ve told you! Yes indeed, they are Russians. Very, very, very wealthy Russians and I have to say, they’re charming. Charming, polite and gracious, although their complements can be unusual. In the mornings, before they dive, my colleague and I set out all their dive gear with a bag in front, ready for them to pack.
“Thank-you Zhane,” says Dimitri “everything is in order,” nodding his well-groomed, solemn face and scratching his all-too-Slavic little pointy beard. Natasha smiles approvingly,
“yes,” she says “this is very neat.”

Above water they charming, ordered and courteous. They are always late, but I have discovered that rich people are all always late. On the whole, on the surface, they’re great. Underwater, they turn into demons.

The reef is a fragile environment: soft corals are in fact very soft; hard corals are really not that hard; many marine animals are coated in a transparent slime which protects them from infection. Touching is bad; touching the reef will damage it, leave it vulnerable and in some cases kill it. These guys touch everything! They touch and grab and poke and shake and pick up and steal! They even steal from the ocean! I want to kill them. They are all experienced divers and their buoyancy is good – but still they are kicking the reef below and behind them every time they stop to look at anything. They have no concern for the reef, but perhaps more strangely, they also have no concern for each other. Solo diving is not safe, we always dive in buddy-teams for safety and I always ask people to stay within sight of me (not least because I am leading the way!). These six swim off on their own, speed ahead or lag behind without considering the rest of the group or even their own buddy.

I have tried to talk to them about all of this; they smile and politely agree that they will not do any of these things. When they get into the water, once again, it’s a nightmare. When I spoke to them (again) about not damaging the reef, I was told not to worry because Valery is a Biologist and knows what he can touch safely. On the next dive I watched Valery swim into an overhang without first considering how he was going to get out. Stupid. On the way out he got stuck. There was a rather beautiful anemone beneath him and the overhang above was coated with hard coral. He should have carefully reversed and tried to slowly manoeuvre back the way he came – that was what I was frantically signalling him to do. Instead he gave me a cheerful wave and forced his way out, crushing the anemone and scraping his tank valve through the hard corals. I suspect that I will find both are dead next time I visit. Some biologist.

I just don’t understand it! That same dive they all came up saying how impressed they were with the exceptional corals – I wanted to scream,
“Do you have any comprehension of the damage you have done?”

Do they really simply not care? How can they not understand? It’s like all the Filipinos who bring their families to White Beach on a Sunday for a picnic – presumably because it’s so beautiful – and then leave all their cans, crisp packets, broken glass and the rest lying on the beach. I really don’t understand, but I find it so incredibly depressing. I actually lifted Olyssa up off the reef today, to stop her from kicking anything else. She was very offended – but what can I do? I can’t just watch. Except in the end, there’s not much else I can do. You can’t force people to care or to take care, can you?

Inner Space

2007-12-11T00:25:00.000-06:00

There are two places in Asia that are very famous for wreck diving: Truk Lagoon in Micronesia and Coron Bay in Palawan. The first wreck we dived in Coron (the 120m warship, Akitsushima) was bombed twice during the attack on Truk, but managed to escape, only to be repaired and then finally sunk in Coron Bay. How unlucky is that?

The Akitsushima was nearly ripped in half by the explosion, but the two halves remain surprisingly intact – as do all of the wrecks. It’s an eerie feeling to swim through cargo holds and engine rooms and see all the machinery and hardware still complete, albeit coral encrusted. Inside the Kogya Maru (a Japanese freighter carrying construction supplies, intended for building a runway) it appeared they had tried to plug a hole with cement sacks – we could see this clearly in the light coming through the much larger hole above us. However the human evidence of the attacks has presumably been recovered (or stolen? I hope recovered), as the only human remains we saw was a single arm bone lying next to the Akitsushima.

And this leads to my one reservation about the wrecks: I couldn’t help feeling somewhat voyeuristic, diving in a war grave. Perhaps this is also what makes it so exciting - that idea of a precise moment of time and history, captured and preserved by the ocean.

In my head I have so many perfect images: dropping down to 36 metres and looking up at the towering hulk of the Irako; peering through a hatch and seeing a very surprised looking grouper looking back at me; watching a blue-spotted stingray gently burying itself in the sand at the base of a massive propeller; the speckled light coming through jagged holes; a lone ladder dropping down into a deep, black shaft; schools of jacks gathering around the crows nest… such beauty in destruction.

I would go back tomorrow and dive them all again.

I should also mention Barracuda Lake, which was without doubt, the trippiest dive I have ever done! It is a fresh water lake, in the crater of an old volcano. The scenery is dramatic: the approach to the island reminded me of King Kong’s Island! It’s a forbidding, but sunny, place. To get to the lake you must climb up and over some jagged rocks in full gear (I will never complain about shore diving again). And the dive! Blimey. On the surface the temperature is was 28ºC, we dropped and admired the same sheer cliff walls now underwater, at 12m we passed the first thermocline – a shimmering line across our vision and quickly I watched the temp gauge on my computer shoot up: 29…30…31….32….33…34……35…36ºC! Really! It was uncomfortably hot, I touched the wall of the lake and the sand was hot. Our guide was rubbing the sand, then suddenly a jet of hot water shot out… all very strange!

We kept descending: at about 25m the water turned into tea. Literally. There is a layer of tannin at the bottom of the lake. At 30 metres it was so stewed we lost our guide – he was no more than 50cm in front… and then gone. I was with two others – I held on to Claire! The other girl was a Divemaster, so I didn’t hold on to her – but she stayed very close. At 33m I could not longer see my hand in front of my face! It was absolutely black. And that was as far as I was prepared to go!

We found our guide at 20m and all was well!

On holiday

2007-12-02T03:15:00.000-06:00

I am on holiday! Hurrah! And what does a Dive Instructor, who lives on a tropical island, do for her holidays, I hear you ask? Well, obviously I’ve come to another tropical island to do some… guess what? Yep, diving!

I am actually very much looking forward to diving WITHOUT STUDENTS! I am looking forward to having a guide and not having to navigate and I am very, very much looking forward to looking at fish and not at the other divers.

We, (my friend Claire and I) have come to Coron, Palawan, one of the more remote spots in the Philippines to dive the wrecks here. In 1944 the Japanese ‘hid’ their fleet in Coron Bay, unfortunately for them, the Americans spotted them and launched an attack. The air-strike was sent from aircraft carriers 350 miles away – setting a new record for long distance raids.

There are 18 wrecks here – I am not sure how many we will get to do, but we start tomorrow! Hurrah!

50 minutes underwater

2007-11-05T00:42:00.000-06:00

My brother often makes jokes about having an incomprehensible job – I have a job that everyone has heard of! You’ve all, no doubt, watched Nat Geo documentaries with divers, but do you actually know what I do on an ordinary day? Yesterday I was guiding, and it was a good day! This blog is about one dive.

I suppose I should start with all the paperwork, getting all the gear ready, the careful chat with my customer to establish how confident/competent/experienced he is as a diver and most important, how likely he is to panic! Then there’s the dive briefing, loading up the boat, setting up the gear… and finally, getting in the water!

We back-rolled off the boat and I swam round to Dave, my customer. Quick ‘ok’ and then I gave the signal to drop. As we sunk into 5 metres of water, I watched his body language, descent speed and positioning – from this, I could see that he was going to be an easy customer – great!

I looked around to get my bearings – nearby was Kate, another Instructor, with two customers - an older couple. Staying out of their way, I signalled to Dave and we headed out to the wall.

When I have a new customer, I particularly like this Dive Site, for two reasons: firstly, in the first few minutes I can take a route that is over sand, so if my customer is a bit ‘wobbly’ they won’t hit (and damage) the coral. Also, I can swim backwards without worrying about hitting anything. I like to swim backwards at the beginning to keep an eye on my customer – you can’t speak when diving, so you learn to read a lot by the way people move and react. In diving it’s important to spot problems before they occur. Secondly, on the slope down to the wall is an Eel Garden – lots of big Garden Eels. They look like grass from a distance but when you get close you can see they’re alive! It’s always good to show a customer something cool at the beginning of a dive – it distracts them from any nerves they might have.

At the bottom of the slope we turned left and started cruising along the wall, dropping slowly to about 20m depth. I got lucky! Looking down, I saw the shape of a fish tail in the rock! A Scorpion Fish! They are very well camouflaged and usually, I find them hard to spot – this one was big too. I signalled Dave to come and look – I watched him blinking uncertainly at the rock – he couldn’t see it. Carefully, I pointed out its’ shape again – they’re poisonous. I saw his eyes go wide when he spotted it. He grinned through his reg and I moved on.

There was lot to see – a small school above us was being hunted by some snappers, which were darting back and forward and the corals are exceptional at this site – so I was able to point out lots to Dave and he was happy! As we reached the ‘corner’ I started to feel the current (pushing us round and out to sea), indicating it was about time to turn around, but first there was a nice big overhang to investigate – and what do I see there but a free-swimming moray!

Excellent! I pointed but I didn’t turn round – I didn’t want to take my eyes off it in case I lost it! Usually morays hide away in the rocks and all we see is a nose peeping out – so to see one free-swimming is always good.

I turned to see Kate and her divers behind me. I pointed out the moray to them and one of her divers planted herself right in front of me – which was a little rude – but then she’s paying I guess! Kate signalled to me that she needed to go up and asked me if I could take care of her two customers. I agreed and she signalled to them what she was doing. I looked back at the moray, it was now moving along the wall, in and out of the rocks. It disappeared into a hole and moments later a banded shrimp came charging out brandishing it’s tiny claws, looking very fierce! The moray had obviously frightened it!

I signalled my (now) three divers that we were turning around and coming up the wall. I had already briefed Dave on our Dive Plan and I know that Kate takes the same route as me, so I assumed the other two would also know where we were going. We turned and started to make our way up the wall. Dave followed me, but the couple followed for a few minutes and then dropped down again. I wasn’t impressed: regardless of what I had just signalled, once you start ascending you shouldn’t go back down – this is a basic rule that all divers should know. I signalled to them to come back and level-off at my depth, they saw my signal but ignored me. I continued watching them but did nothing: they are certified divers, they know the rules – so it’s their decision. After a few minutes they decided to come up and join me. When you start ascending you need to release air from your BCD (Buoyancy Control Device) in order to stay neutrally buoyant (i.e. neither floating nor sinking), again, this is basic stuff. Dave had already done this without being prompted. These two idiots had not. I signalled to them to release some air. The woman did, the man ignored me. I signalled to him again: pointing out that he was rising and needed to release some air now. The man gave me the signal for ‘relax’ or ‘chill out’. I was not impressed and he was still rising. I started to swim towards him – if he didn’t release some air he would start rising too fast and I would need to catch him and hold him down (this is exactly how I hurt my ears a few months ago). At the last possible moment he released.

Kate told me afterwards that, before the dive, he had got cross with her for doing a ‘Buddy Check’ (a last minute check that we all do to make sure our equipment is working and nothing has been forgotten). He told her he didn’t need a check because he was an "expert" diver, he knew "everything" and didn’t make mistakes. In other words he was a fool and he was going to be a headache for me! We continued along the top of the wall – lots of fish, lots to see, but I’m now watching this guy in case he gets himself into trouble!

When we reached the sandy slope back to the mooring line I caught sight of a large cuttlefish! It was the biggest I’ve seen around here so I was very excited! I really like cuttlefish – cephalopods are actually my favourite things to see in the water (Octopus are the best! With Squid and Cuttlefish as a close second. I have yet to see a Nautilus, but they do live around here so hopefully I will soon). One of the things I love about them is that they can change colour – this one was turning white as it swam over the sand and then mottled orange-pink when it moved over coral. Excellent! I turned to check on my divers – when I turned back I couldn’t see it. Arrrggghhh! Their camouflage is too good! This is why you should keep one eye on them all the time! I knew he was around somewhere though, so I decided to stay put.

First I checked everyone’s air: Dave signalled he had half a tank – great. The man signalled that he was ok. I asked again how much air he had and he (crossly) signalled ‘half-tank’, as did his wife. I told them all to stay around here and turned again to try and find the cuttlefish. There it was! I waved at Dave and he swam over, I then turned to signal to the couple – they were swimming back down the slope again. I was getting really fed up of them now! I caught the woman’s attention and told them to come back, pointing in the direction of the boat. I didn’t bother to point out the cuttlefish. Sod them! After a few minutes we started back through the shallows to the boat.

When we reached the mooring line, the woman signalled that she was low-on-air. She had obviously lied to me 10 minutes earlier when she said she had a half-tank. Why do people do that?! I put her on the line and told her and her husband to go up the line to the surface. She signalled ok and started up. Her husband went up to about 1 metre below the surface… and then started coming down again. I signalled to him to stay with his Buddy (for safety, we always dive in pairs, known as ‘buddy teams’. Buddy teams should always stay together) he ignored me. I got right in front of him, behind him I can see his wife also coming back down – obviously she had remembered they are a buddy team, but she is low on air! I told her to stop and signalled again to him to stay with his buddy and surface. Once again he gave me the signal to ‘chill out’ I was definitely not impressed and shoo’ed the pair of them up the line.

After a few more minutes in the shallows Dave and I came up. The couple were back on the boat – she was apologetic, he was pointedly ignoring me. I sat next to him and explained why I had sent him up. “I wasn’t looking at my depth gauge,” he said, as if that explained everything. I resisted the temptation to say “why not, you muppet” and smiled sweetly instead.

Chatted to Dave on the way back. Sold him three more dives and encouraged him to bring his girlfriend along to do a “Discover Scuba” session. Great dive, but fingers crossed I don’t see the other two again!

Favourite thing, that a customer has said to me, this week

2007-10-30T22:49:00.001-06:00

Upon surfacing, directly in front of the hotel, after a Night Dive:

"You mean to say, that you knew exactly where we were for the whole dive?!"

Nb. My light failed in the first 10 minutes... and I didn't have a back-up (slap wrist!) which left me navigating in the dark. My response?

"Yes, of course I did!"

The truth? Ummmm, yeah! Well... sort of... mostly... more or less! Let's just say I was not surprised, but quite pleased, to see the hotel when we came up!

Forks and Spoons

2007-10-27T00:38:00.000-06:00

Traditionally, Filipinos eat with their hands – Malay style – they scoop a ball of rice with their clean hand and dip that into whatever sauce or dish they have. Of course times change and these days all Filipino restaurants provide their customers with cutlery, although I notice my Filipino work colleagues eat their packed lunches (rice and a little something) with their hands. We all take packed lunches to work; there are no budget food places at our end of the beach. I take a sandwich, and for the first week, one of my colleagues would always offer me some of her rice, obviously very concerned that I did not have a 'proper' meal. A meal is not a meal without rice, as everyone knows.

When Filipinos do use cutlery, they use a fork and a spoon. This was something that, for me, took a lot of getting used to. When I first arrived in the country I thought the waitress had made a mistake – being English, obviously I said nothing! After a while you realise that eating rice and sauce this way is much easier – but cutting meat with the edge of my spoon was something I struggled with for some time.

I've been here nearly 10 months now. I eat at a number of favourite local restaurants, with my fork and spoon and, honestly, it’s not something I’ve given any thought to for ages. Tourist restaurants will give you a knife, local places a spoon – one adjusts.

Then yesterday, I tried out a new Filipino café: looking at the menu, I was surprised to see "Bacon, eggs & baked beans on toast". Yum! Baked beans!

When the food came, it wasn't bad! The bread was sweet, of course. They had added sugar to the beans, of course (Filipinos like their beans and their spaghetti sauce very, very sweet) and the bacon was overdone, of course (English style bacon would be considered raw over here). But what really threw me was trying to eat it with a fork and spoon. It seemed, somehow wrong to be eating 'English food' in this way. I was all thumbs – just as I was back in January. Whilst trying to cut my bacon I flicked one rasher onto the neighbouring table. For some reason, I couldn’t work my fork and spoon! Suddenly I felt like a stranger in a strange land, once again. (Although, if I really want to feel 'foreign' I just think about Balut.)

It's the little things you see – the little things that catch you out. One of my English friends has recently started dating a Filipino. She has, of course, told him lots of things about her homeland, but only one thing has really startled him; caught his imagination and completely intrigued him... and that is brown eggs. He has never seen a brown egg and he is not entirely convinced that they exist. It’s always the little things.

The other day I was chatting with a friend from work (the one who kept offering me rice): she asked why I didn't live in England. I said that people in England spent too much time thinking about money. She considered this seriously and replied "here in the Philippines, we think mostly about food..." she thought for another moment and added "and enjoying our lives."

a character

2007-10-14T03:50:00.001-06:00

I have recently started a new job – I am now the Dive Instructor for a posh resort at the classy end of the beach. Staying at the resort at the moment is a woman whom I want to tell you about. I don’t know her name but I feel I should give her some title, because she is an Amazon! I think she might be Dutch or German – her English is excellent, but there is a trace of an accent. She is tall, slim and muscular with long legs, high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. Her fair hair is cropped quite short into a sharp, 30’s style bob. She spends most of the day on the beach – she likes to sunbathe (on the sand, without a towel) in a tiny, lilac string bikini and matching swimming cap. She also swims often and is obviously very fit. She is very polite to everyone and, by the way the waiters fuss around her, I’m guessing she is a good tipper, but she is quite imperious in her manner. It is clear, from her bearing and her attitude, that she expects attention and that she was once very beautiful.

She is old – I would guess in her 70’s, possibly even 80’s. Her skin is wrinkled and sags over her muscles; she has many age spots and dark, thick-looking skin that has seen far too much sun. Next to our dive shop is a little hut where the towels are kept and where the waiters often sit for a break. This morning she came over to get a towel and stopped to fix her swimming cap. Two waiters on their break started chatting and giggling in Tagalog, I guessed it might be about her. After a moment or two, she gave them a sharp look and then thanked them for the towel, very politely, in Tagalog. Both waiters looked horrified and blushed bright pink, as she strolled away, head held very high.

I can’t help but wonder: am I looking at a distant echo of what I will become? I am 35, but dress the same as I did at 20 and I’m in better shape than I was then. I am starting the feel my body begin to age, but so far have opted to ignore it – safe in the knowledge that I am fit and toned and so can still stroll around in my bikini without shame! At what point, if ever, should a woman start to age gracefully?

I like her. I respect her for swanning around in her lilac string bikini! But I see other people staring at her in surprise. The young men look disapproving of her decision to expose so much wrinkled flesh. I see the looks of scorn from the plump, middle-aged matrons that lounge on the sun beds, while their young nanny’s run on the beach with the children. I do hope that behind their scorn is just a tiny bit of jealousy.

Waste of time (and space)

2007-10-10T06:12:00.000-06:00

I was in a bar last night waiting for a friend. Sitting at a table behind me was a large Australian man. His look and demeanour screamed 'idiot-tourist': he had a cheap 'Boracay' t-shirt fresh from the market; shiny, fake Nike shorts and a shiny, sunburnt nose. He was rude to the bartender and when his drink arrived he got his mobile out and started bellowing into it. He was talking to a friend back home about a woman he had met. It quickly became obvious that this girl was a prostitute he had been 'keeping' for about a week. He was not happy:

"I’ve been doing my bit!" he said, "I’ve taken her out and bought her some clothes but she won’t f**king make me breakfast in the morning! She’s just lazy!" He went on to describe how he’d met her in bar and was impressed by her English, so offered to take her on as his 'girlfriend'.

This is a common arrangement struck by the 'better' prostitutes: no payment is made for sex, but the man is expected to buy everything the girls might need for the duration of the agreement. This includes all their food, nights-out (the smart girls will get commission from bars and restaurants) new clothes (which the girls return to the shop the following day) and sometimes even rent and school fees for their children. When I was in Mindoro, a man I was diving with told me how his girlfriends’ parents had lost their house in a typhoon and he was paying to re-build it. I thought this was a little odd because it wasn’t typhoon season at the time. A week later I heard the same girl telling another man the same story. The following day I asked her about it – she laughed and said, “My parents loose their house about once a month, whenever my boyfriend have the money!”

A lot of Western men, who are embarrassed about using prostitutes, prefer to have a 'girlfriend' but they end up paying a lot more! I’m told that the 'girlfriends' who are good hustlers can make around p30,000/month (the average graduate salary is p8,000/month). The girl I met in Mindoro told me she was supporting her parents and putting her four brothers and two sisters through school with her earnings.

But I digress – this particular 'girlfriend' was apparently not up to scratch. The Australian said he had expected her to clean the flat and do his laundry as well, he was angry that she didn’t seem to think this was her job. She apparently wanted him to get a cleaner. It seemed his friend was trying to placate him and in response he admitted that: yes, the bedroom stuff was f**king great and she was "good enough to show the boys". Then he said,

"Cos’ I’m looking at this as a job interview!" (I’m not exaggerating, he used those exact words.) He continued, "I mean, if this is what she's like after a week, what kind of wife is she gonna be? I’ve got three kids back home that need looking after – I’ve got no time for a lazy bitch! Nah mate, it’s no good! I’m gonna have to chuck her out and start from scratch with another one. F*cking waste of time…"

A charming way to describe a leaky roof

2007-10-09T06:51:00.000-06:00

"Of course you can leave your things here, but please to know that when it is raining outside, it is also raining inside"

Culture Clash

2007-10-02T02:43:00.001-06:00

Sunday was a tough day: I had a frustrating lesson in Filipino etiquette, which I must confess, I find incomprehensible at times. It’s only an ‘ordinary’ work anecdote, but here it is:

I had a Night Dive booked, it was the last dive of a Course and my student was flying home the following morning. The dive had been scheduled for a couple of days, but when Sunday came, the weather was ugly: grey, windy and rainy. I don’t think any of us really felt like diving, but it was my students’ last day – we had no choice. Although the weather was bad, there are sheltered areas on the backside of the island where it’s still safe to dive and that’s where I was planning to go.

At 4pm on Sunday afternoon my Boat Captain dropped a bombshell: he told me our boat was not licensed for Night Diving, and we couldn’t go. He apologised and shrugged. I know our boat does Night Dives – so I suspected he had a hot date he didn’t want to miss, or maybe he just didn’t like the weather - neither did I, but I wasn't very impressed. I was also surprised – usually this guy is a hard worker and very enthusiastic. I told him we had to go. He insisted the boat was not licensed and he would get a large fine, our Shop Supervisor agreed this was the case – p10,000 they said, an enormous amount. I sighed, and said I would get another boat. They both nodded earnestly, safe in the knowledge that the chances of me getting another boat at 4.15pm were very, very slim indeed.

I called my friend L, who is the Manager of a Dive Shop further down the beach. He confirmed that there is no such license. We just have to give a manifest to the Coastguard. I told the Supervisor, who pretended that this was news to him and promptly busied himself in the filing cabinet. Moments later he told me, with a shrug, ‘so sorry’ but they had run out of the manifest forms and so I couldn’t dive tonight.

“But the manifest needs to be given to the Coastguard” I said.
“Yes,” he replied, “but we have no more forms”
“The Coastguard will have forms,” I said “take the names and fill out the form there”
“Ah” he said. He shuffled his feet and stared at the floor, then he said he would call the Coastguard.
“It takes a long time to get approval” he told me, “many other dive shops tell me this. I don’t think we will get approval tonight.”
“We don’t need approval,” I said “we just need to submit the manifest”
“I do not think this is correct – from who did you hear this?”
“The Manager, L, from C Divers”
“Ah” he said.

He called the Coastguard, spoke to them in Visayan (the local dialect) then told me, very apologetically, that the Coastguard said we couldn’t dive. “So sorry,” he shrugged. I asked to speak to the Coastguard. He spoke again into the phone, this time in English “I have an Instructor here who is insisting,” he said, and passed the phone over, looking nervous.

“It is very bad weather!” said the Coastguard “not nice for diving!”
“I agree,” I said “but I have a course to finish, we must dive tonight”
“Oh” he said “but it is not safe to go deep!”
“We’re not going deep” I said “five metres”
“But you cannot go far!” he said, “there are waves!” I wanted to tell him, it's the ocean – there are always waves! I realised my Supervisor had asked him to talk me out of it. I sighed, “We will not go out far – only to five metres depth”
“You could shore dive,” he said.
“That is not safe” I replied, “there are waves and many sea urchins”
“Ah… yes,” he said.
“So we will bring down the manifest…”
“Yes… but… it is very bad weather!”
“I know, but it is still safe to dive at Tambisaan, isn’t it?”
“Yes… but, diving late at night is not safe.”
“We are not going late, we are going straight after sunset. So I will get the manifest to you now…”
“Yes” he said sorrowfully. The Supervisor and Boat Captain looked crestfallen. I hung up. We all looked at each other. “Please take the names to the Coastguard” I said.
“Ah” said the Supervisor, looking at his watch “but there is no time now,” he shrugged, “already it is 5 o’clock! So sorry.”

There is a very particular shrug, peculiar to the Philippines – half nonchalant, half resigned: it begins with a sad face which says – ‘that’s life and life is tough sometimes’, it continues with an upbeat shoulder-lift which says – ‘but hey! Things could be worse!’ Then it finishes with a hopeful half-smile which says – “and it not really a big deal anyway!’ Sometimes this can be amusing, even charming, but other times it’s very irritating. At 5pm on Sunday afternoon, I was finding it extremely annoying. We appeared to have reached some kind of gridlock. I was getting tight-lipped and slightly fierce; my Filipino colleagues were giving me that blank, impassive stare with which there is no reasoning.

I decided to try talking to the Boat Captain again; after all, we are usually friends. I told him that I sympathised, I felt the same – the weather was horrible, I didn’t want to go either, but I promised him we would not go far, and it would not be a long dive. But, I explained, I had to finish this course or I would not get paid. Lastly, I said, “they might tip!” He listened, but looked very embarrassed. Then he disappeared into the backroom for a conference with the other ‘backroom boys’. I waited.

After a few minutes he returned. He looked shamefaced and would not make eye contact – I was expecting some terrible confession. He took a deep breath and said
“Now it is low tide. Last time we make night dive in low tide, I hit a rock. It damage the propeller and the old manager make me pay – for long time I pay,” he said. He looked close to tears: propellers are very expensive and boat captains are not well paid. “I cannot pay again,” he said.
“No, of course not” I said. “I will speak to the manager.” My friend, the Boat Captain, looked absolutely dejected, I worried he might cry with embarrassment.

And so, I spoke to the manager and the manager spoke to the Boat Captain and, in just a few minutes, the tension dissipated, the Boat Captain was back to his usual happy self and we went out to dive; where he waited patiently, in the pouring rain, while we dived and afterwards greeted my customers with smiles and not one word of complaint. When we got back I got the beers in, and now it seems, we are all friends again.

What frustrates me is that he had a legitimate reason to worry – why not just say that at 4pm?! Or even the day before? It was because, so friends tell me, to give me the real reason, would be to admit two things: that he was nervous and that he might make a mistake. The Filipino man cannot admit either possibility. The sad thing is that I should have known this. Our Supervisor and the Coastguard were backing him up, because they understood, and did not want to shame the Boat Captain by making him admit this out-loud. By forcing him to spell it out, I shamed him.

If I had not been there to force the issue – the Night Dive would have been cancelled, and the guys, through various hints and off-hand comments would have slowly got the message back to our boss that they were worried about Night Diving on the backside during low tide. Nothing would have been said directly but over a few days it would be been dealt with. It’s true, the shop would have lost some business in the mean time – but [shrug] that’s life and life is tough sometimes… but hey! Things could be worse and, in the end, it’s no big deal.

I'm sure if one of my Filipino colleagues was writing this blog the emphasis would be on the strange Englishwoman who is mostly OK (I hope), but sometimes… ‘oh my God, she can be so stubborn, so inflexible – so unwilling to ‘go with the flow’ like a normal person. Worst of all, sometimes, she is so outspoken, so outrageously direct, that one hardly knows where to look!’ But I am a ‘long-nose’, a foreigner, and foreigners often behave very strangely – so I think I have been forgiven. I also think the beers helped.

Thanks Matt (and Bob!)

2007-10-01T01:59:00.001-06:00

Cats and Dogs

2007-09-24T23:22:00.001-06:00

I woke this morning to see sunlight filtering through my curtains – it was very exciting. I sent a text to the dive shop to see if the boat was going out; made arrangements to meet a friend for brunch; the day was full of promise... then someone turned the lights out and the taps on. Yes readers, it is rainy season – occasionally it can be sunny and fresh, but mostly it’s dark, grey and the rain is coming down in sheets. Monsoon: the kind of rain that will soak you to the skin before you’ve even reached the front gate.

Usually the rain is accompanied by a crazy wind – leaving a café the other evening, I was nearly swept off my feet! There’s no escape from the Habagat (wind) because all the shops and restaurants barricade themselves in to keep the sand at bay. Walking down the beach is braving a wind-tunnel gauntlet: there are 10m high windbreaks on your right and boards and screens to your left. The sand whips past, stinging and blinding. Bah! Some tropical paradise! There are rumours of a typhoon coming... I have mixed feelings: part of me actually wants to experience a typhoon; the other part knows it will be horrible and inevitably some (or many) will loose their houses.

From the Lookout, at the top of The Hill, you can clearly see that Boracay is really two small islands joined by low spit of land, practically a sand bar. I live on the sand bar and we are frequently flooded. Around me it’s rarely above ankle deep, but in the centre of the island it has reached mid-calf-nearly-knees a few times. Many of the houses are not linked to any sewage system, so I resist thinking about what I might be walking in. Many buildings are raised, but not all. There are a few houses around the corner, who are living ankle deep in water. They appear to carry on regardless: a few days ago I saw a family in their flooded kitchen, sitting around the table having supper. I suppose there's not much else they can do.

Yesterday, there was a large bull tied up next to the path – complete with horns – I think he usually lives in the swamp, which is currently the lagoon. I was a bit scared! Bulls are always larger than one is mentally prepared for. I hovered on the path for a few minutes, then a couple of small children waltzed past – so I thought perhaps I could handle it.

People try to time their comings and goings with the weather. When it starts getting grey we decide: do I need to be anywhere else in the near future? If yes, move now! It is always a tragedy to get stuck in a bar for the whole evening! When the rain stops, people emerge from their shelter, blinking at the sun like little bears in the spring.

Still, only a few more weeks, then paradise will resume... but I wish I taken Mrs Botogol’s advice and bought those wellies!

(sigh)

2007-09-16T00:07:00.000-06:00

Just got all excited: someone left a comment on my blog! "What could it be?" I mused. The name was unfamilier - so it's not just one of my friends leaving a 'sympathy comment' (not that I get many of those). It's a stranger! Someone, that I don't know, has checked-out my blog (wow) and it has inspired them to think something! Something that they wish to communicate. Fantastic! I didn't look at it straight away - I had some emails to reply to, so I decided to do that first and save the mysterious comment for later.

Just checked it out. It was a link to an adult videos website. Life is full of cruel disappointments. Blogging is standing on a big stage in a dark auditorium - talking blithely to the darkness.

How can I help you today?

2007-09-13T00:05:00.002-06:00

I was reading a very interesting article in a Filipino magazine over breakfast. It was all about Call Centres. Call Centres are one of the fastest growing industries in the Philippines. There is even a Call Centre ‘district’ in Manila! It is estimated that 300,000 Filipinos are currently employed and the industry growth rate was 100% last year.

I am sure none of this will surprise you! When I was last in the UK I heard Call Centres often discussed with a view to how irritating it is to be transferred to Delhi/Islamabad/Manila when you have a simple question about the branch in Ealing. One bank, I noticed, is even using “UK Only Call Centres” as the major tagline on their latest ads.

Here in the Philippines, Call Centres have also caused some consternation. You see, at p16,000/month, the pay offered is twice that of the average graduate salary (p8,000/month). Most of the employees are, therefore, fresh from University and the crème de la crème! The job is so staggeringly well paid because it is considered to be a “high stress” job. Employees are expected to learn the internal workings of a company they have never even heard of, and the specifications of all their products upon starting. More importantly, they are expected to speak fluent, business-quality English – as well as understanding a variety of dialects, accents, colloquialisms and slang (again, from a country most will know very little about). They must also cope with different customs and culture – British and North Americans interact with considerably less courtesy and formality than Asians. Worst of all, they must deal with customers being (as the article put it) “unreasonably angry”!

And they must do all of this in the middle of the night. Filipinos don’t work at night – apart from Night Watchman of course! Certainly bright Filipino graduates don’t work at night, and nor do their friends. As a consequence, Call Centre workers are becoming increasingly isolated (and alienated) from their friends, family and normal life. One Insider Source, went so far as to say,

"We must do a better job of preparing people to enter the industry. It would be helpful to look at Call Centre employees as a new section of society"

So what is the result of this new sub-culture of young, rich, nocturnal Filipinos? I am imagining they might be cultural cousins of the “Loadsamoney” characters we had in the UK during the booming 80’s, who also worked long and often unsociable hours. Bright, young, vibrant and more money than sense! I can also affirm, as one who has experience of nocturnal life, it does distance you from the conventions of society. You eat, sleep and socialise at different times from everyone else, except your colleagues. I remember a birthday party in Sydney where we (nightclub workers) were shocked to discover the restaurant wasn’t serving a full menu – it was 8am. After only a short time your work colleagues are, inevitably, the only people you see and this leads to a strong clique mentality – from here, it is only a small step to creating your own group customs and conventions. In the Call Centre district of Manila, according to Marvie, a 22 year old from Makati, “it has led to a corruption of values”. Our Industry Insider put it even more succinctly:

“Imagine being young, working with many others your own age, doing stressful work in the small hours of the morning while earning more money than you ever have before. These conditions create opportunities for casual sex and philandering.”

Of course, since they only speak to each other and their western clients – it wouldn’t have taken long before they started integrating Western slang and style into their close-knit clique. And not long after that, come the ethics.

The Philippines is a strict Catholic country. The use of birth control by married couples is still sniffed-at by many. However, the convenience stores in the Call Centre district have reported a 35% increase in sales of condoms and 'vaginal wash' this year. Taxi drivers are reporting numerous occasions when they will collect workers at the end of a shift and take them directly to a motel. Some are accusing the Call Centres of corrupting the traditional roles of the virtuous Filipina and the caring Pinoy man. As casual sex becomes more and more prevalent (and therefore acceptable within the group), male workers are reporting that their female colleagues are becoming sexually aggressive and more confident than is proper! The article reported many cases of workers having multiple partners within the same office, and also stated that the same problems have been reported in India, where some have even called for mandatory HIV tests for all Call Centre employees. Here in the Philippines the possibility of giving free lessons in Safe Sex to all new employees is being discussed. One wonders how long it will take them to discover cocaine.

Long Haul

2007-08-26T06:51:00.000-06:00

I’m at Hong Kong airport: it’s all shiny and lush and arched and grey and matt and I can’t find anything. I suspect I am in the wrong terminal, but when I asked, the charmingly sweet Information girls just giggled and agreed with everything I said – in the Asian style, which really could mean anything at all. There’s free Wi-Fi (doh! Obviously!) but it’s so slow – I am writing this blog rather than watching the wheel spinning over at Yahoo… arrggghh….

What I really need is to go to the loo. This is the one major drawback of travelling on your own: I will now have pack away my stuff and take everything with me and, no doubt, loose my nice table with the attractive view over the terminus… right. No point in putting it off! Here we go…

I have decamped and retreated to the dusty corners of Gates 1-4. It’s quieter here and more in keeping with my state of mind. Sadly there are no tables, so my laptop really is. Fortunately after my sojourn in the home of real ale, I am now able to balance my laptop on my ample tummy. Curses.

A few words about the signposting of Hong Kong airport: I believe it is designed to wind you up. They signpost really well… up to a point, then they stop. When I arrived I suspected I might have ended up in the wrong terminal (caused by several mishaps involving confusing signposting and over zealous staff). So when I saw a sign saying “Transfer Help Desk”, I thought that would be my first port of call. I following the sign to the left, I saw another pointing straight on and so continued. Then nothing. Nothing that looked like a help desk anyway. There was a large silver bean on a pedestal (oh how I love modern airports, with their surreal concept art – more cruelty to be inflicted on the long-haul passenger, anxiously rubbing our weary eyes: “Does it mean coffee?” we ask in bewilderment.) I turned in a slow circle, looking for a sign or some inspiration. I saw a sign, which read “Airline Services Desk”. “They might know” I mutter to myself hopefully, so I set off, to the right, then straight on, until there are no more signs… once more a slow circle reveals only one helpful sign: “Transfer Help Desk” it reads.

Upstairs there’s a food court (from where this post began) I ate some nasty fast food. It was a burger or noodles and I am putting off the realisation that everything I eat for the next 6 months will come with rice or noodles for as long as possible. Although, as I write this, watching my computer wobble in front of me I think it must be a good thing.

One hour to go until my next flight: just time for another Killer Sudoku.

I can’t get no sleep

2007-07-24T09:57:00.002-06:00

“It's at night, when perhaps we should be dreaming, that the mind is most clear, that we are most able to hold all our life in the palm of our skull. I don't know if anyone has ever pointed out that great attraction of insomnia before, but it is so; the night seems to release a little more of our vast backward inheritance of instincts and feelings; as with the dawn, a little honey is allowed to ooze between the lips of the sandwich, a little of the stuff of dreams to drip into the waking mind. (…) Perhaps that's why some of us are insomniacs; night is so precious that it would be pusillanimous to sleep all through it"
Brian W. Aldiss

I suffer from insomnia and Brian W. Aldiss is an arse. I would just like to make that clear from the start, in case any one was thinking this was going to be some kind of arty little piece about the romance of the night. Bah. I found this quote at 4.46 this morning when, in the absence of anything else to do, I put “insomnia” into every search engine I could find. And he uses words like ‘pusillanimous’ – what does he do, sit up all night reading the thesaurus? How peremptory.

As for perceiving 'our vast backward inheritance of instincts' – could he mean Facebook do you think? Second Life? Living our lives in cyberspace at unusual times of the day and night? I do that. Facebook, MySpace, flickr, friends reunited; my favourite shop is Ebay and love Google Blog Search for that really bleak stretch just before dawn. I have become a virtual weird old man who wanders around the streets at night shouting rude and inappropriate comments at people having normal healthy fun.

I am not lacking in imagination! I have already fed nearly every random name from my past (near and distant) into that great virtual haystack – I found an old school friend and didn’t find any ex-boyfriends – so pretty successful all round. Usually around 5am I get stuck into Blog Search – some of them are boring aren’t they?! I’ve been looking for my friend’s mystery blog: he is writing, but won’t disclose the web address. I am not certain whether he wants anyone to look for it – but insomnia reduces any ethical considerations to mere whimsy. Beyond 5.30am I’ll do just about anything to keep amused. "Anyway", I told him, "you might as go public – no one reads these things."

The problem is though, (as the narrator from Fight Club pointed out – Earths’ Biggest Movie Database) “when you have insomnia, you're never really asleep... and you're never really awake,” that’s because you’re very, very, very tired. I sit here as the hours tick by, too vague and disconnected to do any work, research or even write a decent blog (feel free to correct me on that point); putting stupid words into Google; attempting to trace my family tree or looking up quotes, lyrics, movie reviews (education, I tell myself) none of which I read. I just scan. I’m one of those machines on the supermarket check-out: ‘blip’ I say, ‘yep, seen it; next! Blip! Yeah, that too…. Blip!’ And yawning, I do a lot of yawning. I do full-body yawns which nearly throw me from my chair. Last night I discovered a ‘Traveller IQ’ test – which I did 9 times. I now have a ‘superior’ Traveller IQ and am ranked in the top 7,000 in the world. I am Jane’s complete lack of surprise.

What did insomniacs do before computers? Watch mindless TV I suppose. I don’t want to sound contumelious, I also watch a lot of crap TV, but that’s not worth blogging about.

It’s not just a nocturnal condition either: in the daytime, I am too tired and grumpy to do anything interesting. As a result: I socialise badly and I work poorly. I loiter, however, very well.

Habagat is coming

2007-06-27T23:12:00.001-06:00

Sorry I haven't blogged in so long... it's been a funny time. I've been off work - which in theory means I should have more time on my hands - but somehow I've managed to stay pretty busy.

Boracay is getting quieter, which I am enjoying. There's more time to hang-out with friends. The atmosphere is a lot more relaxed - no-one's making any money, but also the pressure to make money is off for a while.

Why is it so quiet? [I hear you ask!] Well, the season is changing: it's getting humid; the rain is becoming a monsoon and there's a new wind in town.

From September to March the wind is called Amihan. Amihan comes down from the North East and is one of the reasons that Boracay is so very boralicious! Amihan keeps the temperature cool, the Kite Surfers occupied and, since it comes from 'the other side', White Beach and most of our dive sites are protected from any big waves that result.

From June to August Habagat blows up from the South West. The Habagat is hot and steamy. It comes onshore to White Beach, whipping the fine sand into a frenzy of stinging proportions. Soon all the boats will have to move round to 'the other side' to hide from it. We will no longer be able to dive off White Beach, because of the fierce waves [although apparently the reef on the other side is great].

All the restaurants and bars on White Beach are busily constructing giant wind breaks - some 10m high. I am told within a month or so the whole length of White Beach [about 6km] will be shielded from the Habagat.

Here's some pictures - it's quite surreal!

Door to Beach

2007-05-18T23:46:00.001-06:00

A Photographic Blog: a series of photos taken between my place and the beach, starting with the view from my balcony.

Leaving the building...

This little boy was very interested in me taking photos and passed by on his bike a few times! He was too shy to speak to me, however!

My neighbour keeps [and trains] fighting cockerels. Terrifying birds [grin] but thankfully not as noisy as the ones in Malapascua.

Men at Work! They're building a new drain under the street. Will be nice - there was an open ditch there before - not pleasant on a warm day!

This 'Lagoon' [that's what they call it!] also smells! And someone is building a very posh-looking restaurant right next to it! Does the Developer not know?!

This is The Road!

A food stall... could even call it a drive-thru food stall!

Yes indeed! We do have a ferris wheel... kind of! It's smaller than most houses!

A "barhoop" seller [I am not sure of the spelling]. It's a health drink, which I think is made from Soya. It's popular in the morning and you hear the sellers walking the streets, calling out "BarHOOOOOP"!

Indeed.

Positive Thinking

2007-05-09T21:21:00.002-06:00

First the book... then, inevitably [grin] will come the movie!

Thanks M@! Class - I love it!

Right, so all I've got to do now is a write a damn book...! [sigh]

Today

2007-05-09T01:32:00.002-06:00

I started my day with a Filipino breakfast - you have to be in the mood [smile]: Longanisa [a sweet pork sausage - tastes like chorizo fried in honey], garlic rice and a fried egg. Yummy! For dessert I had a stack of pills for my ears. [I'm on steroids! I keep thinking about Jeff Wode's head!] Then I had some jobs to do.

I am looking for a place to live at the moment. It's always hard to find a new place, wherever you are, although in some ways it's much easier here. The Filipinos are, as I have said many times, some of the friendliest, most helpful and accommodating people you could ever want to meet: the moment I mentioned to a few people that I was looking the messages starting flooding-in to say that someone's friend/uncle/cousin had a place I should look at!

However, the problems are as follows:

There are no road signs in Boracay. This is because there are only two roads: the first, known as The Road, runs from the Port at the S-Eastern tip, about two thirds of the way up the Island until... well... until the end of The Road, basically. About halfway up The Road is a right turn which leads to Bulabog Beach and then up The Hill. This is known as The Bulabog Road.

Of course these are not the only thoroughfares - oh no! Leading off & beyond both roads is a whole network of dirt tracks and alley-ways, which is where everyone lives. Most of the alleys are about 2-3m wide and passable by motorbike, some are winding tracks through the grass, others are tiny alleys between the houses. These can be alarming: only children can pass one-another easily. For adults if you meet any on-coming 'traffic' it is a fairly intimate encounter [I often feel I should, at the very least, introduce myself first!] involving sticking to the wall Spiderman style and squeezing past apologetically.

Since none of the alleys have names the locals find their way around using local landmarks. This works since everyone around here knows each other, and knows where everyone else lives. If you're a new kid in town, it's hard.

Today I went to look at a place which I knew was near The Bulabog Road. I started by texting the landlord [everyone text's here - texts are cheap, phone-calls are not] whose name, charmingly, was Dudes. We arranged a time and confirmed the price [the 'first price' obviously - there's always room for negotiation!] then came the tough bit - directions.

I decided to phone:

"Walk down the Bulabog Road," he said, "past the swamp" [not kidding], "look for the little Church," [it was a shed] "then turn right down the alley next to my Uncle Ronnie's house..."

"aaah. What does your Uncle Ronnie's house look like?" I asked. There was a pause.
"You don't know Uncle Ronnie?" he sounded surprised.
"Ummm, no" I replied, slightly bemused, I have never met Dudes!
"But he is the Uncle of your friend Noel also!"
"What? Noel?!" [I do have a friend called Noel, we work together.]
"Yes! Noel is my cousin!"
"But...!"
"Noel! Your friend! From work!"
"Yes, yes, I know Noel! But how do you know where I work?"
"You are Jane, right?"
"Yes"
"And I think you are English?"
"Yes"
"So you are Jane, the new English Instructor who works with Noel! Flowers!" [I have a tattoo of flowers on my back]
"Aaaah, right, yes"
"So you know Uncle Ronnie?"
"No, I've never met him."
"Oh! Then you must come round!"
"That would be lovely, but for today - what does his house look like?"
"Oh don't worry, I ask him to sit outside. He knows you!"
He did, nice chap!

Every house I visit it's like this! After Dudes place I went to see two places owned by Oscar. We met at his daughter's Cafe. Oscar was surprised that I didn't know where Bing's Cafe was. "Just down the alley!" he said, "by the green 3-storey house!" I found the house easy enough - 3 storey's! Not many of those around! The alley involved walking through someones back garden - under the washing line, carefully manoeuvring past a gang of fierce Warrior Cockerels and climbing over some building materials. Being careful not to wake the man sleeping on top. And I didn't like the room.

Next, I had to buy a new watchstrap - mine snapped at breakfast. I was directed to KC's place ["Just down the alley! The one by Jo-Jo's house! What? You don't know Jo-Jo?! But he is the cousin of the husband of your friend Anna-Lou!"] KC makes hand-made flip-flops on an ancient hand-powered sewing machine. English readers may well have seen one, if you've ever been to a Museum about the Industrial Revolution.

He took my watch and compass and threaded them onto a thin piece of binding, he then mounted them onto a thicker piece of binding, stitching it all carefully. I explained I was a diver and that if the strap came loose I could loose my watch into the depths. He emptied a sack full of clips, in various sizes, onto the floor. We found one the right width, but it was very chunky. He produced a very sharp blade and pared it down to the right thickness - perfectly! The strap then looped through the clip and Velcro was added, made to measure for my wrist. Finally he stitched an extra 'catch' on the end so the strap couldn't slip back through the clip. Brilliant! I have a perfectly designed, beautifully made, diving watch strap, with integrated compass! It took half an hour and cost me a pound!

Later this afternoon I am meeting Noel to go and see his Uncle's [not Ronnie] friend's place. Aparently, it's just off The Road, near the bike shop - you don't know where is the Bike Shop?! But it's owned by the brother of Junas, who you know from...!

Classy

2007-05-08T04:39:00.002-06:00

There is a brand of condoms here in the Philippines called "Fullup"! [chortle] They come in two varieties: "Zero Wrinkly" and "Tony Wrinkly"

I have no idea what this means!

At the Clinic

2007-05-06T22:34:00.000-06:00

I went to the Doctor last night [I've hurt my ears - boo.] The doctors here are excellent but the clinic is bereft: one tiny room which opens onto the street, in the corner there is screened cubicle for examinations. But other than that there's no privacy, no space, the patients sit on two benches, whilst the doctors sit on a plastic chair in front of them. We all listen to each others complaints and sometimes other patients will contribute their own thoughts on whatever ailment is being discussed. It is embarrassing and can be uncomfortable, but there is also a certain amount of solidarity between the sick!

On really busy days, the nurse will put a couple of plastic chairs on the pavement outside, where she will take blood pressure, etc, before the patient goes inside. Children often gather to watch.

Last night, however, there was only one other patient besides me: a little boy, about 7 years old, who had stepped on a Sea Urchin. It was awful - he was screaming. I don't mean frightened or frustrated screams... I mean real screams. Screams and sobs of pain and bewilderment. At one point he was shouting at his mother, who was also sobbing, I think he just couldn't grasp what was happening to him. I don't speak Tagalog, but I am pretty sure he was saying something like "make it stop".

An older lady, Grandma I expect, was also with them. When the mother couldn't cope anymore she stepped in to hold the boy still. He tried to fight her, to break free, but she silently gripped his wrists, whilst tears streamed down her impassive face.

The Doctor was very calm and patient, but I could see she was also becoming distressed by the situation. The little boys foot was starting to turn black and there were still spines to remove. He was getting more and more distressed, he was drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his face, he eyes were becoming bloodshot and his distress was making it hard for him to breath. But the Doctor couldn't give him a break - the longer the spines stay in the more effect the poison will have.

In the street outside was a group of children - friends, brothers and sisters - silent brown faces with dark, round eyes. The littlest ones were trembling, but none of them ran away, they all stayed. There were others, people who had heard the screams as they walked by and stopped to see if they could help. The three women who run the food stall on the corner closed down and came and sat with the children. The nurses put some chairs out on the street and and a tiny girl, no more than three, curled up on a chair, sucking her thumb, with her other hand wrapped around her head, to shut out the noise.

My doctor, Jonas, grimaced at each new scream while we talked and he examined my ears. Before I left I asked about the little boy: "one more spine to go" he said and shrugged, "there's not really anything else we can do." I asked how frequent were Sea Urchin injuries. He said this was the ninth this month, but usually it's adults, "at least they understand" he said.

"Tonight," he gestured towards the boy and lowered his voice "only three spines. Two weeks ago, a man came in, I must remove 33 spines from his feet, it take more than 3 hours, " he shook his head sorrowfully, "but he will be OK.

The strange thing is, as a diver, I see Sea Urchins everyday. They are no threat to me: I am not standing on the bottom and they don't move [during the day]. I quite like them. They are pretty - often the colours are beautiful. I know they are poisonous and I always warn my customers not to touch them. But really I don't give them much thought. I think I'll see them differently now.

10 things / 5 things

2007-04-12T23:09:00.003-06:00

Ten things I love about the Philippines:

[1] I love the way shop assistants tell you what you're looking at while you shop:

"shoes ma'am... white dress ma'am...
tee-shirt ma'am"

I never know what to reply?

"errr, yes! Indeed it is!
Thank-you!"

[2] I love that the advertising is still honest: a brand of Filipino hot-dog sausages were having a special promotion last week. Their slogan was:

"New & improved! Now you can eat more
than two without feeling sick!"

Brilliant!

[3] I love the way Filipinos always offer to share their food... [especially hot-dogs!] and that it is rude to say No! It can be awkward, a few days ago I had to sit down to sticky rice pudding with condensed milk straight after a big lunch. It was a struggle!

[4] I love that the ocean is so changeable and incomprehensibly unpredictable. Currents can change direction in moments, conditions are impossible to predict and you never know what you might see. On any given dive you might see sharks, turtles, tuna, marlin... or absolutely nothing.

[5] The sexual & platonic liberation: Transvestites are no big deal over here - no-one bats an eye-lid. Gay couples are never stared at or harassed - it wouldn't even cross people's minds. I have even come to appreciate the blatant prostitution - it's in your face, but at least it's honest. Saw a hooker recently wearing a tee-shirt that read: "cheap, safe and friendly" [grin] I also love the platonic liberation - male friends think nothing of having an arm around one-another or holding hands. Filipinos are tactile and it's just friendly. I like that.

[6] I love that when it rains it comes down in sheets and floods the streets in minutes. Then it stops abruptly and paradise resumes.

[7] Being called Jane! Obviously I like being called Jane everywhere I go - but over here they know the name! Having a name that is mostly a vowel sound and starts with a J can be problematic. In other places I have been variously known as: Shin, Yayne, Hanay, Gin, Zeen, Jiyne... the list is endless! But Jane is also a Filipino name! So far I have met two: little Jane from the shop [she's 8] thinks it's great that I have a 'Filipino name' and as a consequence we have a daily ritual of:

"Hi Jane"
"Hi Jane!"
"How are you Jane?"
"I'm fine Jane" etc

Which she finds endlessly amusing and I have become resigned to! [I'm joking, she's a lovely child, I like her.]

[8] I love the way when Filipinos drink alcohol, they drink from the same cup! They poor a shot, the first person drinks, then passes the bottle & cup on to the next person. [They also drink all their spirits neat, with a water chaser.]

[9] I love Taglish! Officially the language here is Tagalog, the second language is English. Unofficially everyone speaks Taglish. In Taglish all numbers plus certain phrases are English. For example: I caught the local TV news last night. A man was giving a statement, it went something like this:

"Ang ba pusoy kamitin 50-50 chance nangarak ka abutin mo 75% chance mangbay ang kay angdang faulty electrical
wiring upang bitiin makamit extreme
fashion kayo ba ito'y buhay make a full
recovery"

Brilliant!

[10] Black-outs: The power goes out here a lot. Usually every day, usually a few times a day. I don't love that [grin]. What I love is the way Filipinos react - it's like hitting a pause button. Remember musical statues? It's like that! The moment the power goes, everyone stops - street sellers sit down and waitresses stand still - I was in the Deli the other evening when the power went, the Deli has a back-up generator so they still had light, but none-the-less the Assistant stopped making my cheese sandwich until the power came back on! When the power comes back everyone cheers!

Five things I hate about the Philippines

[1] Cockroaches. They are big, they are many and they are everywhere! Ugh. When they run around on my raffia-covered walls they make a rustling sound and sometimes I dream that things are crawling on me... "paranoia" you say? Yeah, that's what I keep telling myself too.

Until last night, I would have said the biggest were about 2" long. Big enough. Last night, I opened the door to get some air and something fell off the door onto my foot. From the weight of it, I thought it must be a lizard, but then it scuttled and I knew. Bravely, I ran away making a funny yelping sound, which I had no idea I could make. I glared from a distance - it was nearly 3" long. Eeurrgh. Fortunately, having recently certified as a Dive Instructor [hurrah!] I am in possession of a huge tome-ish Instructor Manual. I threw it. Nothing moved - victory was mine. Half an later curiosity got the better of me and I went back to check - the Manual had landed on it's body, pinning it to the ground [and crushing it surely?] but it's head was sticking out and it's whiskers were still moving! Arrrrgggghhhh! Bravely, I ran away. Fortunately, yesterday I had purchased a new bottle of water [I buy the giant ones that go onto office Water Dispensers] I put the water on top of the Manual and went to bed.

This morning the head was gone. I can think of two possibilities: [a] The monstrous cockroach, bench-pressed the Manual and the water and got himself out of there. [b] There were sufficient numbers of roaches in my room last night to eat the monsters head, leaving no trace.

I actually prefer to think he escaped.

I should have lifted the Manual and looked. But I didn't. I asked them to clean my room instead! Poor Lisa won't like it - but neither do I! "Cowardly!" you say? Yeah well... I saw 3 big sharks in the deep blue yesterday morning and felt nothing but exhilaration. We all have our limits.

[2] Electricity: The wiring here is awful. I electrocuted myself last week turning on a lamp. It threw me across the room and my arm was tingly until the next morning [sigh].

[3] Sleeping with a fan on: It's too windy! Obviously you can't sleep without it because you wake-up in a pool of sweat... but with it, I have anxious dreams about low-flying helicopters and wake up with a stiff neck. Boo.

[4] Can I say cockroaches again? They are by far the worst thing! And they fly! Do they usually fly? I don't think so. They don't fly very well, however, and sometimes crash into your head... ugh.

[5] OK, cockroaches three times is a bit much... there must be something else I hate? Nope, it's going to have to be cockroaches - I hate their whiskers/antennae or whatever they are. They twitch in a gross and sinister manner... did I mention they were everywhere? [sigh]

Blogging Blues

2007-03-07T22:27:00.001-06:00

I have just spent five days in the jungle. I could tell a tale of a steep, jungle-clad valley with a deep aqua-lime river winding through it. I could spin a yarn of thousands of indignant bats and a 2 metre emerald lizard. I could sketch a scene from days past of villagers digging themselves into caves, squeezed between hanging tree-roots and glittering stalagmites, to hide from invading soldiers... but I'm not going to... because I have the Blogging Blues.

What do I have to do to please you people?! Huh?! [assuming 'you people' are not actually a figment of my imagination]. What must I do to get a reaction? I thought Lablita would tug at your heart strings and squeeze a response out of you... but it seems little Labli left you cold. I thought the episode in Ging Ging Cafe would raise a few questions about the nature of tourism and cultures colliding... but apparently you didn't even raise an eyebrow. I had hoped that my Ferry troubles or my bizarre reception in Sibuyan might amuse you! But I guess not. Are you really so world-weary? Have you really heard it all before? [sigh]

After consideration, there are two possible reasons for this total wall of cyber-silence:

1. I have no readers. You are in fact my latest imaginary friends. Sadly imaginary friends can't make comments, encourage or criticise. As friends go, they're rubbish.

2. I have readers, but I have [as yet] completely failed to engage, interest or entertain you.

So what do I do? Are my blogs too long? Too short? To much about myself? Too much about other people? To much about people all together and not enough action? Does my blog need a flamboyantly evil villain and a couple of really good tricycle chases? Or some naked celebrities perhaps? Am I too random? Too glib? [grin] Not glib enough? [cheeky grin]

In case anyone was wondering, I am not in the luxurious position of needing a comments policy. So whatever you write will go up! Perhaps you are unsure of what a constitutes a comment? This online dictionary defines it as:

"a remark, observation, or criticism; gossip; talk; a criticism or interpretation, often by implication or suggestion; a note in explanation, expansion, or criticism of a passage in a book, article, or the like; explanatory or critical matter added to a text"

Which is more or less the same as my definition of a comment:

"anything, ANYTHING, that lets me know you're out there and I'm not just writing this for my Dad!"

Don't get me wrong! My Dad is a small, but worthy, audience and I shall continue to write this solely for him [and in the hope that I may pick-up a few stragglers on the way].

But for now, I'm going to the beach, to reflect upon the last few crazy days... that lizard! Crikey! It would've made a great blog. You [if you exist] missed out.

I'm not even gonna tell you what this is. But it looks to me like it might have a plan for world domination...

Mythical beasties

2007-02-27T19:36:00.001-06:00

"I don't believe in seahorses"

I've said it many times. Usually in a voice full of bitterness and resentment. I thought they were mythical creatures, like mermaids and sea-badgers, de profundis, dreamt up to temp potential aquaphiles to take that giant stride into the blue.

So when they told me yesterday that I might see a seahorse, I scoffed! "Two different species" they said, I mocked. "Look in the soft corals" they said, I bah'd!

But nevertheless I searched, spent the first 30 minutes or so head down in the corals before finally remembering that I don't believe in seahorses! They don't exist! There were six different species in Roatan [where I used to live] - I never saw one! Friends would come back from dives saying they'd seen so many... I would go to the same place and see nothing. Bah!

I tried experimentally doing some bah's through my regulator. I didn't really work but it made me feel better. I decided to look for reef fish instead. Two seconds later six brightly coloured butterfly fish cruised past. Ha! Much better.

Continued finning along, then out of the corner of my eye I saw a funny looking piece of coral... "that bit of coral looks just like a horses head" I mused to myself, "how odd." I actually kept going for a second, before the proverbial penny dropped. Then I back flipped for another look... "that bit of coral has a tail!"

I very carefully moved some of the soft coral to get a better look, the tiny seahorse quivered slightly and looked at me. I moved back a little, not wanting to frighten him. Oh my, he was a pretty little thing! Peachy orange, slightly mottled skin, delicate tail wrapped around a soft coral, maybe three inches from tip to toe. Very, very cute!

So I take it all back! Seahorses do exist! Tomorrow I'm not coming up till I've found a sea-badger.

NB. The following day I saw another seahorse, an even tinier black & white one, hiding under a rock. I also saw a sea-moth... don't even ask, I'm still a bit freaked out...

Manta Ray

2007-02-27T05:03:00.000-06:00

Manta Manta Manta Ray!

I've been grinning from ear to ear ever since! As some of you will know, seeing a Manta Ray has been Number 1 on my 'Wish List' of 'Things to See Underwater' for some time now [years!].

The day before yesterday, I finally saw, not one, but two!

The visibility was not that good as we dropped into the blue, about a mile out to sea. Felimar, our guide, led us to a Cleaning Station on the edge of the wall. As we settled into position, I peered over the edge of the 600m drop into the black depths. I could see the shadowy shapes of snapper and grouper circling below.

And then we waited...

Out of the gloom she appeared - a majestic 6 metres from wingtip to wingtip. Slowly, but so graceful. She came straight toward me, then turned effortlessly and hung in the water as the tiny cleaning fish rose up to meet her.

If my mouth could have hung open it would have been! I had thought I might get giggly, but I wasn't. I had a moment when I felt my heart beating and a warning voice inside me said 'calm down Jane, don't breathe too fast - you'll burn all your air and get sent up early!' I took a moment to focus on my breathing... and realised I wasn't! 'Breathe! You fool!'

She circled slowly a few more times and then she was gone.

We waited...

To pass the time I amused myself by winding-up a small clown fish [aka Nemo] that was fiercely defending his Anemone territory. I also took the opportunity to move forward, a little closer to the edge.

Then 'ding ding' - I heard Felimar tapping his tank and looked up - nothing. Looked out to the either side - nothing. Looked ahead again and... aah yes! There she is! [Felimar has good eyes - made a mental note to dive with him again!]

This one was smaller, only [only! Ha!] 4-5 metres. And closer! I was looking straight up at this Manta, so close she was nearly above me. She hovered, turning elegantly on a wingtip, whilst the reef fish cleaned her.

She had a very jealous Remora on her belly who seemed upset at all the commotion! Mottled underbelly, but smooth silvery grey on top, huge gaping mouth. Thicker than I was expecting, more muscular. Bright watchful eyes.

Beautiful. Really, really beautiful.

So what's at the top of my Wish List now? Well, to be honest - Another Manta Ray! But this time I want to swim with them.

Malapascua

2007-02-25T20:39:00.000-06:00

Tiny island - maybe 2k by 1k. Not many people, thousands of cockerels. The 'dawn' chorus is deafening and starts at about 3am. It goes on all day [breaking only for the extreme midday heat] until about midnight.

I lie in bed dreaming of having some heavy artillery. Perhaps an automatic rifle or a machine gun. I could finish off a few hundred of them from my bedroom window - cock a doodle doooooooarrrraaaawk! Hahahahahahaahahhahahaaha... feathers everywhere! [sigh] It would be bliss! [grin]

The rest I would pick off with a sniper rifle from the top of a very tall palm tree which [in my daydreams] I can climb easily. Cock-a-doodle-phfffit. Smack, all over and I sleep!

But these are fighting cockerels, proud bird-warriors who glare at me with imperious and knowing eyes as I pass by. They're probably packing a pair of pistols under those feathers. I wouldn't win.

I give in, get up and go for breakfast.

Breakfast at Ging Ging Cafe

2007-02-25T20:12:00.000-06:00

Sitting at the table next to me are a 'typical' couple: older, greying, overweight Western man with his beautiful Filipina girlfriend, barely 18 years old. He can't stop touching her, has an arm around her, pride oozing from every pore. He keeps trying to catch my eye and those of the other Westerners in here. His body-language is clear: "Look what I possess! Look at me! I may be old and fat but this beauty wants to be with me!"

They are cooing lovingly at one another, she speaks very little English. He is taking her photo, many times, directing her, posing her for his holiday snaps, "no, no!" he says "just look over there... like, so... yes, that is good!"

Can he really have no idea she is a prostitute?

Can you imagine the same scenario in Europe? Middle-aged man picks up a hooker from the red-light district and takes her down to his 'local' to show her off! He would get laughed out of the pub!

They finish breakfast and he gets the bill. It is very cheap but he only has a big note - p500 [about 5 quid - a huge amount here]. The waitress takes it without expression. She is an archetypal Filipina waitress: slow, patient, speaking no more than absolutely necessary. She walks away very, very slowly, letting her flip-flops drag on the paving stones behind her - shoosh... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh...

She consults the Cafe's matriarch and returns... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh...
"I cannot change" she says abruptly. She is not being rude.
"You cannot change it?!" he seems surprised [I wasn't]. She shakes her head,
"No change" she says.
He picks up his wallet from the table and starts leafing through a wad of p500 and p1000 notes, looking for something smaller, "no no" he murmurs "I do not think I have... You have some change?" he asks his girlfriend.
"No"
He looks up sharply, "you have no change?"
Before he has finished speaking she is already shaking her head.
"No change" she says firmly.
"No change?" he asks with an indulgent smile, "nothing at all? Not even a few peso?"
Then he laughs, but it is a laugh of realisation and sounds a little desperate.
"But you must have" he speaks quietly, embarrassed by the presence of the waitress. "What about the present I gave..." his voice trails off. His girlfriend is shaking her head. Hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes demurely downcast, but the shaking head is resolute.
"No change" she says quietly.

He turns back to the waitress, who has watched their exchange without expression.
"So you must get change!" His tone is brisk, his smile artificial. There is an increasingly fragile air about him - I can almost hear his dreams shattering.
"No change" the waitress repeats.
"Then you must go somewhere and get some change! And quickly please!"

The waitress looks at him calmly. He is making extra work for her and she doesn't like it. There is no readable emotion on her face. The two young Filipinas are so still, so quiet, so inscrutably Asia.

She turns and walks away... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh... disappearing into the trees behind the cafe.

There is an uneasy silence. The man laughs again, fake and nervous.
"So you have nothing!" he says "Even after I..." his words hang in the air unsaid. The girl has not moved - small feet together, hands folded in her lap, eyes downcast. Then finally she looks up and meets his gaze with cool eyes.
"I don't pay" she says quietly.

Silence. It is very hot, there is no breeze. Minutes pass, the man shuffles in his seat and wipes his head with a too-small napkin.

Shoosh... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh...

Wordlessly the waitress hands him his change and she waits.
"There is no tip!" he says, too quickly. She shrugs and... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh... shoosh... she is gone.

The couple stand and leave. His girlfriend walks two paces behind him and smiles at me as she passes.

Lablita

2007-02-16T23:19:00.000-06:00

Lablita is four years old. She has only very recently moved to Boracay to live with her sister, Asa. They come from Mindoro, a nearby island, from a very big family. Asa is the oldest at 24 and Labli is the fifteenth of sixteen children. Asa tells me her mother is in trouble with the Medical Clinic: they told her she mustn't have any more children as it may kill her, but she didn't listen and is pregnant again at the moment. I ask why. She tells me, "my mother does not want to know about family planning." I don't say anything, not wanting to judge. But I think my face betrayed my feelings, because Asa continued, quite sharply "it is not the same for other women here. Many women do want to know."
I say, "that is good" and she nods.

Her mother has to work very hard to feed the family. "It take more than 2 kilos of rice every day for us!" says Asa, raising her outstretched palms, at the sheer impossibility of such a thing. Her mother works at a restaurant. She takes the baby to work with her, but Labli is too old for this and "runs around too much". So Labli was left at home, alone. Asa tells me her mother would leave Labli in her crib, with 3 bottles of milk and her toy [note the singular]. Her mother works 10 hour shifts. Labli would never drink more than 2 bottles during the day. Asa thinks she was always careful in case her mother didn't return.

After Asa's last visit home, she invited Labli to come and live with her, here in Boracay, "because" she says, quite seriously "in Boracay there is more food."

Labli sits beside me while we look at a glossy magazine. She is very tactile, touching my hair, my leg or holding a handful of my tee-shirt in her tightly clenched fist. She likes to point at the pictures and for me to tell her the English words. She is quite absorbed in this. We reach a page of recipes, there is a photo of a colourful pasta dish. Labli claps her hands and says "Happy Birthday" in English. Asa laughs and says "she always say Happy Birthday when she see a full plate of food" then she looks a little sad and shrugs "for her, this is what birthdays are." I ask Lablita what is her favourite food. She grins, hugs herself and says "bread".

Encounter

2007-02-03T22:42:00.000-06:00

"Excuse me sir! You want to go sailing?"
"Wah?"
"Sailing trip sir? very good price!"
"ba, duuuh huh" [wobble stagger]
"Oh sir [sigh] Ok sir, no sailing for you today. But you had a good night, I am thinking?" [smiles]
"Huh, raaaa, a huh, guh" [chuckles]
"Ok sir, this way! No sir! You live this way, Grand Pacifico, this way!" [pointing]
"Gra n Pa-i-co! Huh, wa?"
"Yes sir, I speak with you before sir, yesterday! You remember? You say maybe you come sailing today [sad smile] but maybe you come tomorrow sir?"
"Wa huh" [nodding]
"This way sir, you want I help you?"
"Huh uh" [stumble fumble]
"Oh! [laughing] no sir! There is no charge for walking sir! But maybe you remember me? My name Torek, yes? Maybe sailing tomorrow! [sigh] This way sir"

Boracay

2007-01-27T23:56:00.000-06:00

Just occurred to me! I haven't said anything about where I am now!

I'm in Boracay. It's a tourist town: bars, tourists, a fascinating variety of beach traders [grin], more bars, more tourists [loads of Koreans] and a great beach... oh, and cheap Internet!

I've met some cool people, been out a few times, lazed on the beach quite a lot. Nothing worth blogging about! It's nice here - relaxing - feels like a holiday! But I am looking forward to moving on - truth is, secretly, I love those jeepneys!