Loco

The Captains log this week has tales of sea monsters, storms, seasickness, Spanish brandy, serenades of George Michael and a stash of Nutella. There’s also news of great celebrations - All aboard the Hugo!

Tintin on the Pacific

As I type this the laptop screen rocks slowly back and forth with metronomic regularity, swaying in time with the desk, the floor and the entire room.

I gaze out of the window in front of me to take in the view: mighty waves slipping by; crests breaking; clouds drifting across an azure sky. And endless, endless water, stretching to the horizon and far beyond.

It’s not the most typical of sights. But then isn’t the most typical of surroundings. We are on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Having travelled most of the 21,000 miles we have covered so far by land (with the odd ferry thrown in ) we now take to the water, hitching a ride for 15 days aboard a container ship bound for LA, from the far east of the Pacific to the far west.

The Pacific Ocean - the very words conjure up images of ambition and adventure, it’s a byword for the exotic, the far-flung, the unknown. The neon-lit waters of Hong Kong harbour to the to the surf-bound coast of California - sounds far more interesting then Chek Lap Kok to LAX.

No identikit airports and long, dismal queues, no leg-crunching seats and foul, plastic food. No predictable movies or no 9/11 paranoia, no screaming babies or snoring adults.

Just the two of us and a few crew on a big boat. On an enormous blue ocean. With no land for days.

My primal fears still to stir inside. Drowning, shipwreck, seasickness, scary monsters in the depths below and ferocious storms in the skies above.

Too late.

We’ve hauled the anchors now, cast off the ropes. We’re heading out into the unknown, the unquantified, the unpredictable. There’s no way out at sea. No one can hear you scream…

Deep breath.

Take a look at our surroundings. It’s palatial!

As the only passengers we’ve been given the owner’s cabin - a bedroom, large living room and en-suite.There’s a TV, DVD and Hi-fi, plus a fridge, a desk and large sofa. 15 days in which we can live out of cupboards and drawers rather than the cramped confines of a smelly old rucksack.

No dodgy Chinese wiring here, no leaking toilet or dripping taps, no filthy sheets or cacophonous street sounds. Just a gentle hum from the engine, and the steady rock of the ocean. There’s a laundry and mess room, where we dine with the officers. Three hot meals a day, served to us at our own table. There’s a a small gym, with exercise bike, weights machine, table tennis and darts board. There’s a sauna for Lara and even a mini swimming pool.

We’re are treated as honoured guests: the officers go out of their way to guide us around; the crew invite us to sing karaoke (I wisely turned down), play basketball (I was resolutely thrashed) and ping pong (ditto).

In between eating and fraternising we doze on the deck, stretched out on sun loungers or dip into the boat’s impressive DVD collection.

All the time we little moving world sways gently around, sometimes placid, sometimes vigorous.

This can present certain challenges: how to eat soup in a swell for one, and how to sleep when the boat’s rolling and pitching.

Other challenges lie ahead no doubt, but in the meantime I admire another sunset and gaze at the horizon.

I feel like Tintin, my hero, the daring young reporter.

He regularly set off on his adventures by boat, where exciting events would take place: Snowy would get attacked by a shark; Thompsons would wear old-fashioned bathing costumes and Captain Haddock would invariably get drunk on whisky.

And always there was some shady type on board, a stowaway, or a crooked crew member, usually a shifty Balkan-looking type with crossed eyebrows and a dodgy ‘tasche.

Best keep an eye out. After all, anything can happen at sea.

Wednesday

Whenever we lose track of days we usually find it is Wednesday. On this Wednesday we were given an extra day; Wednesday 3rd December 2008 literally happened twice.

The first third of December started like most others on this ship - the alarm went off at 07:45, with breakfast at 08:00. We have recently discovered porridge on the menu, which makes a refreshing change from the fried meat of the last week. It was a warm, sunny day with a large roll factor. The rolliest we had experienced so far which made doing everything either an uphill or downhill struggle that eventually got the better of my digestive system. The swell was in fact so strong that the front of the ship was damaged, but the ship ploughed on.

I went through the usual routine of writing in the morning, eating at midday, reading and snoozing in the sun after lunch followed by yoga and the exercise bike before dinner at 17:45. The regular evening DVD screening was Son of Rambow (****½) and Bobby (***).

At 22:30 we crossed the International Date Line, 180° longitude, and the day started again. So when we woke we opened the second third of December window on our World in Slow Motion advent calendar.

It has taken tins of peanuts, circling torches, diagrams and protracted discussions with the Navigator for me to understand why my life will always now be a day longer than stated on the calendar. It’s something to do with standardising time so that night is always dark and day is always light the world over and so that everyone is living the same day as in Greenwich, London. But perhaps more importantly, every step eastwards is now a step closer to home.

The second third of December began like the first. Alarm at 07:45, porridge at 08:00. It was cloudier and windier than the first third of December but the nauseating rocking had subsided. Everything carried on pretty much like it had the first time round except that the reading and snoozing took place indoors as there was no sun.

After the gym the day took an unexpected turn. A note on a chair inviting me to take a stroll to the bow was followed by games in Morse code and signal flags. Then I was led to the edge of boat where surrounded by nothing but Pacific Ocean on three sides Tom got down on one knee and popped the question. I took my chances and said yes.

That evening we celebrated with the Filipino crew who gave us Spanish brandy, a serenade of George Michael and sang love songs to us on the karaoke machine. The German Captain shared his private stash of Nutella with us. You can’t beat that for history repeating itself.

You can read past blog entries here.

Loco2 would like to say a huge CONGRATULATIONS to Lara and Tom on their engagement!

While Lara and Tom are sailing across the Pacific to the USA, out of touch from the world-wide-web and in touch with the big-wide-world, we visit South-East Asia through their eyes for the last time. To keep us going in their absence they have provided us with a ‘Dos and Don’ts guide to South-East Asia’, but first we hit the tracks from Hue to Hanoi.

Hue to Hanoi: letting the train take the strain

In Hue we elected to tackle the next leg of our route by train. We were looking forward to getting back onto the rails again, rather than onto yet another bone-rattling, leg-twisting, ironically-named ‘sleeper bus’.

The photojournalist Tim Page, who’s rattled along a few Vietnamese railways in his time, puts this better than me:

Train travel allows the mind to wander, the eyes not really focusing on the passing countryside, the heady clackety rhythm becoming white noise, a mere sound tapestry to meditate upon…On a train you actually have a sense of getting somewhere, denied the traveller sealed in an aluminium tube zooming across the sky.

Inside the small dusty waiting room, we occupied an entire row of flimsy plastic seats, our enormous bags dwarfing the slender locals hemmed in around them. I poked my head around the door to glance at the platform: it was uncomfortably quiet, hardly a soul moved, let alone a train.

As the minutes ticked by and the time dragged well past our designated departure time. Still no train.

The locals seemed unconcerned, dozing in the seats, nonchalantly sipping green tea and gazing at the traffic outside.

Finally, 50 minutes later it was action stations: a guard stirred, a tinny loudspeaker croaked out some kind of announcement and we were allowed onto the platform. People plus baggage began shuffling onto the platform. Hardly a great swarm of people like you’d have to contend with in China, more a trickle of the unhurried.

A group of men crouched down on the platform, lay a battered old briefcase on its side and immediately started playing cards. They fingered their dirty old dong notes whilst others crowded around, watching the gamblers.

A young couple strolled up and settled down on the bench next to us, resuming the cooing they had been so rudely interrupted from back in the waiting room.

And still no train.

I began to wonder what it could be that was causing such a severe delay. Mexican bandits? The wrong type of snow? Richard Branson?

Finally, an hour later than scheduled, the noise level seemed to pick up, passengers stirred and, to much whistling both from its driver and the sundry guards on the platform, a train appeared, its headlights piercing through the descending gloom.

The dusty green carriages hauled up in front of us, the grimy windows obscuring the interior. We quickly boarded, hauling our bulky loads through the narrow corridors as the rabble pressed up eagerly behind us.

Peering into our cabin we found it already occupied: a large family, big enough to fill a small village stared back at us, their grubby kids sprawled all over the beds. Cue frantic hand signals and pointing at beds and tickets before finally the guard came along and turfed these stubborn train gypsies out.

Although ‘soft sleeper’, our cabin didn’t quite live up to our expectations: it held six beds rather than four, crammed in so that each bed had about two and half foot of space between it and the one above. Grimacing as I adopted a contortionist pose I squeezed my slim frame into a bunk at the top, hauling my pack up behind me.

There was a jolt, and we started moving: ten hours through the night to the capital.

A short night, abruptly ended at 5.30am. Raised voices, doors slamming, a knock at our door: we’d arrived. Hanoi.

The Dos and Don’ts of South East Asia

Sun, sweat and scooters; trains, temples and tours; bananas, buses and lager. The tourist infrastructure in Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand and Laos turns traveling into a wonderful holiday. However, alongside the tourist trade come touts and tricksters to be wary of. So to supplement your Lonely Planet/Rough Guide (delete as appropriate) here are World in Slow Motion’s top tips for S.E. Asia:

Do:

- Take a sheet sleeping bag. There is a curious lack of bedding in these parts.
- Carry plenty of U.S. dollars cash. They are a useful back-up and the currency of choice in Cambodia.
- Drink bia hoi on plastic chairs in the street in Vietnam. 20p for a glass of draught lager.
- Drink fruity drink and coconuts with a straw. You can spot a fruity drink stall by the glasses of chopped fruit to which condensed milk, coconut milk and balls of sticky rice are added and served with crushed ice.
- Eat amok. This creamy Cambodian curry is the among the best food in SE Asia.
- Take the sleeper bus. A bus with beds is a sight to behold and an experience not to be missed, but don’t expect to have a good kip.
- Have a massage at Seeing Hands in Siem Reap or Phnom Penh. These blind masseurs know what to do.
- Help out at Big Brother Mouse. Either chat with the children in English or buy one of their books to help promote literacy in Laos.
- Get up early to see monks collect alms at sunrise, a special sight in Luang Prabang, Laos.
- Go to the flag lowering ceremony in Hanoi, Vietnam. A triumphal affair every night at 9pm at the Ho Chi Minh memorial.
- Learn to say “no thank you” in the local language to keep the hawkers and touts at bay.
- Stay at Golden Temple Villa in Siem Reap. Excellent value and unlimited free bananas make it a winner.
- Stay at Hong Thien Hotel II, 46 Chi Van An Street, in Hue, Vietnam. Tien at reception is very helpful, but don’t book a Halong Bay tour through them (see below).

Don’t:

- Stay at Greenfields in Hoi An, Vietnam. Poor value and dreadful service.
- Rely on your guidebook for accommodation and eating recommendations. Use the Web, get tips from others and explore by yourself to find some real gems.
- Go on a Halong Bay, Vietnam, tour with Tuan Linh travel agency. These tours are sold through Kim Adventures and various hostels in Hanoi. The boat is broken and the guides lousy. If your boat is called the Duy Tan Junk 02, don’t get on it. Electricity is intermittent and the motor may give out.
- Use the travel services at Victory Queen Hotel (formerly Old Darling Hotel), Hanoi, Vietnam. They take a whopping commission without telling you.
- Buy shoes at Cham H’Mong, 495 C’ua Dai Street, Hoi An, Vietnam. They fall apart within hours.
- Buy your Cambodian visa at the ‘Cambodian Consulate’ in Aranya Prathet, Cambodia, it’s a scam. Buy it at the desk once you’re through Thai immigration.
- Take any price as given - accommodation, food, things - all are up for negotiation. Pay what you think is fair.
- Sleep at the back of a sleeper bus. The bounce prevents sleep.
- Lose your temper with a local. If you cause someone to lose their temper they will lose face and make your life very uncomfortable as they try to regain it.
- Expect a peaceful sunrise at Angkor Wat, Siem Reap. You will be joined by hundreds of tourists all jostling for the same perfect sun-rises-over-ancient-temple photo.
- Wear shorts and sandals in Khao Yai National Park, Thailand. The leeches will eat you for breakfast.

We are sailing…

So, farewell Asia.

After four months on the road and rails across this mighty continent, from the low mountains of the Urals to the warm waters of the South China Sea, we will finally bidding a farewell to this huge, diverse chunk of the planet.

Tomorrow we set off into new waters…literally. For the next two weeks our new home will be the CMA CGM Hugo, a container ship sailing across the Pacific Ocean, from Hong Kong to Long Beach, USA.

Beyond the ocean lie the delights of another continent: North America?

But first we have the small matter of a large pond to cross.

Laying my trusty Michelin out last night I realised that the Pacific covers a good third of the planet. It’s going to be a long and (hopefully) fascinating voyage.

See you on the other side…

You can read past blog entries here.

This is the last message from Kate on this leg of her low carbon travel adventure, as the sad truth is that she is going to fly the last leg of her journey to Australia (boo!).

For those of you who are just joining this story, Kate started travelling in August 2007 when she got on a cargo-ship from England to Costa Rica. Six months later she took the bold decision to carry on towards Australia, this time sailing. After getting side-tracked in the delightful paradise of Tonga, Kate has finally set sail again. This is the latest installment, and probably the last for a while.

This week signified the beginning of another leg of my round the world adventure as I finally dragged myself away from my home in Tonga and put myself back on track to reach Australia. I have not only found a new boat with which to continue my journey, but have pulled off the nautical equivalent of being picked up by a limousine, and am currently heading west on a yacht which represents all that is indulgent about being rich.

My new home is a 47-foot catamaran with my own cabin and private bathroom, a flat screen television and DVD player, 3 showers, 6 fishing rods, umpteen bottles of wine, and crisp gin and tonic on tap. Apart from the copious amounts of rum on board this vessel is much more “fabulous darling” than “yo ho ho” but the saving grace of life aboard Averone - which should earn me at least a little piratical kudos - is the presence of our captain, big bald Bob the budgie smuggler. Sounds good doesn’t it? However, I think that I may be one of the only people in the history of sailing to step aboard a huge luxury catamaran for an all expenses paid cruise to Fiji and immediately burst into tears.

What an opener, I know you’re all on the edge of your seats now; how did she end up on a luxury yacht? Why was she crying? Who is this Bob and what has he done to the poor budgies?

But before I open that can of comedy worms let me start with an apology for the radio silence which has accompanied my Tongan escapade. It seems that being on dry land was just too damned exciting to allow any kind of major email writing during my two month stay on the island, so now we must all suffer the consequences as we embark on a journey through time:

Previously in Kate’s life…

Having sailed across the Pacific with a motley crew of strangers and an increasingly grumpy captain I decided that it was time to explore the South Pacific on my own and thus made the courageous decision to abandon ship in the Kingdom of Tonga. However in comparison to the likes of famous castaways and mutineers such as Robinson Crusoe and Fletcher Christian, I was faced not with a gang of angry islanders and the prospect of surviving on a diet of coconuts but found myself in a little corner of paradise which is full of lovely people and where you can buy all kinds of delicious treats including brown bread, vegemite, and tea bags. For those of you who know me well the abundance of tea and toast should give you the first clue as to why I loved Tonga so much.

My Tongan life was characterised by a healthy dose of good wholesome fun, which is in no part due to the abundance of glorious sunshine and the distinct lack of mind-numbing imagination-slaying popular entertainment. Television in Tonga doesn’t start until 5pm Mon-Sat and is totally non-existent on Sundays which is reserved for church-going and divine celestial singing. There’s nothing like trashy TV shows to destroy any desire to do get out of the house but there is no such distraction in Vava’u. So, in alphabetical order here is a list of everything I have done over the last two months:

Beach (that was a given really)

Dance (regularly at my favourite bar Tonga Bobs)

Explore (including climbing a mountain and investigating bat filled caves)

Fly a kite (on the beach)

Free dive (I can now reach 10metres)

Hermit crab race (you guessed it, on the beach)

Host the pub quiz (in Tonga Bobs)

Impersonate Yorkshiremen (on the beach and in the bar)

Jump off the jetty (surprisingly not near the beach)

Kayak (into the unknown, and to the beach)

Limbo (also at Tonga Bobs)

Sail (in dinghies and in the weekly yacht race)

Scuba dive (ooooh fishy)

Snorkel (roughly three times a week)

Whale watch (those whales sure are massive)

and some other things I can’t think of right now.

So, in a nutshell I was having a ball, a good old fashioned hoot full of childish glee which is how I managed to lose two months of my life in Neiafu. But the icing on the cake was the friends I made, some real legends that I am going to miss loads. This made leaving Vavu’a a little problematic and led me to turn down several good opportunities to take to the sea again. My attempts to seek passage towards Australia bore fruit on more than one occasion, but there was always another reason to put my departure off, a birthday party, quiz night, a Tuesday…the list goes on. So when I eventually did summon the courage to leave it was with great regret and that is why I spent the first hour aboard my new yacht crying my eyes out like a total loser and waving as my friends became mere specks on the horizon (cue the violins).

International hitchhiking is something that I had never really considered before I set out on this adventure. It sounds like the sort of thing that would be impossible, especially as someone who prior to sailing from Mexico had no experience at all. But actually I had numerous offers of passage to Fiji and beyond. Some were more promising than others and some were basically just sleazy old dudes hoping to entice young women out into the vast oceans. You have to stick to your gut instinct with these things so when Bob approached me in my local pub I almost thought it was too good to be true; free passage to Fiji you say? On a luxury catamaran no less? I don’t have to pay for food? You insist on doing all the cooking? It just didn’t sound real, but two days in and life aboard Averone couldn’t get much sweeter.

Big bald Bob is a brilliant bloke, a very rich moustachioed Englishman who sold his business at the age of 42, relocated to New Zealand and swore never to work again, opting for opulence and extravagance at every opportunity. He is of the opposite school to me when it comes to comedy beards and claims that these “gnome-like sailors” have got it all wrong. This morning as I tucked into my weetabix he strolled into the galley in nothing but a pair of Speedos, worn in the embarrassing Dad style and announced “I hope you don’t mind my budgie smugglers at this hour”. This is a man who claims that the smell of cigarette smoke before lunchtime makes him vomit yet he will quite happily catch, kill, and gut a fish before breakfast. He makes my former captain seem uptight and ridiculous, and has totally changed my outlook on sailing as he serves champagne and sushi for lunch, or stops everything to watch the sun go down with a nice cold drink.

Yesterday Bob caught yet another fish on one of the many rods which are permanently streamed from the stern of the boat.  Vegetarians looks away now: this one was a Mahi Mahi, a massive square headed beast of a thing which flashed a vibrant display of blue and green as it tried to fight off the hook before being hauled onto deck where it proceeded to thrash wildly spraying the entire deck, and all of us with its blood, charming. But when that same fish becomes your lunch only a few hours later it’s pretty hard to complain.

As I sit here writing this email I am sporting a rather fetching gimble belt which for those of you no familiar with fishing accessories (such as I was only days ago) is a belt into which you put a rod when you are trying to pull a fish in. That’s right folks, Bob is teaching me how to catch fish. So hopefully I will soon be recounting you with tales of my triumphs over nature and the many fish dinners I have created.

We’re half a days sailing away from the shores of Savu Savu in Fiji where we will stay for a few days before heading off to cruise the islands. I will probably stay on Averone for a couple more weeks taking in the sights and sounds of the many Fijian islands before I finally bite the bullet, swallow my pride and (possibly, maybe, if it’s the last resort, because I am ridiculously broke) fly to Australia where the grown up world of jobs and responsibilities await me.

I can almost hear you all draw breath, that’s right, Kate ‘I’m never going to fly again’ Andrews may be on the brink of admitting defeat and taking to the skies for the final leg. Oh well, no shame, I’ve managed 11 months, 17 countries, 14,000 miles and no flying to date so I am going to shelve my ideals momentarily in order to get my bank balance out of the red. Please send all gloating emails to www.at-least-i-tried.com.

Images courtesy of Johnanlb and joeforjette.

In another three-worded alliteration-fuelled blog post, Kate waxes lyrical about the harsh dilemmas of relaxing on a paradise tropical island. I have delayed posting this for some time because of pure, seething jealousy… over to Kate:

Since my last love affair with our friend the internet I have been back at sea for two weeks, at the mercy of the uncooperative wind and waves as we sailed the 1500 nautical miles from Tahiti to the Kingdom of Tonga. Sadly in this installment I have no stories of pearl smuggling or giant eels to keep you entertained but have been brought crashing back down to the day to day monotony of yachting; of reading books, cooking meals, and enjoying the many delights of salt, water, their close relative salty water, and the colour blue which is available in a range of shades and tones to suit your home.

However before departing Tahiti I did manage to squeeze in a beer and impromptu sing-a-long with a friendly group of skirt-wearing, pot smoking, tattoo covered locals who made up with beards what they lacked in teeth. A lifelong supporter of the comedy beard I was pleased to make their acquaintance and so spent my last few hours on land in their company, playing along to their songs with the newest development in percussion technology, the classic pebble and bottle combination. Disappointed that they couldn’t offer me a lift home, and reluctant to see me try to hitchhike they kindly organised for me to be escorted back to my yacht on a jet ski. Talk about arriving in style. I only wish that the following two weeks at sea were as interesting.

The highlight (if you can call it that) of this week has been the arrival of cockroaches on the boat. While not an infestation of biblical proportions, the headcount currently standing at two, we didn’t want to give them the opportunity to multiply, so armed with a bottle of now illegal boric acid, and with the tune of ‘eye of the tiger’ reverberating in my ears I got to work, dousing all available surfaces with the noxious powder in a hope to burn off their limbs as they mount their assault on our food stores. Ha ha, in your face disgusting only-thing-to-survive-a-nuclear-holocaust-evil-insect-of-doom. Survive this! It seems the pre-emptive strike did the trick and we haven’t seen any since. However, the threat to our precious food was not over yet.

Just as we were recovering from the cockroach fiasco we suffered the simultaneous breakdown of our fridge and freezer which forced us into a race against time to eat as much food as possible before it defrosted or grew mould. While I can’t really complain about being encouraged to stuff my face with ice cream, cheese and salami, this eat-a-thon, coupled with the distinct lack of exercise which characterises life aboard a 44ft sea-faring caravan is rapidly accelerating my decline into lardiness, about which I am none too pleased. And then, three days later all the food was gone, and we were left with 3 apples, a variety of tinned goods and a selection of just add water treats of the dehydrated kind. Thanks to the joys of pasta, rice and fake mashed potato (or faux-tato as I like to call it) we did not starve. Nor did I develop scurvy which I happen to think is a pity as it would be have been very authentic sailor-ish of me, but there’s still time.

The third disaster to strike our boat was the weather, which fluctuated wildly between total calm and no wind on one end of the spectrum, and too much wind and lots of rain on the other. Somebody once likened yachting to “standing in a shower while tearing up money”, and I have to admit that the last fourteen days fit this bill very well. The only saving grace in this situation, which comforted me as I was thrown from side to side during one of many small storms or as I sat, staring through rain at an eerily becalmed sea, is the thought that as a trans-Pacific hitchhiker it isn’t my money.

Our arrival in The Kingdom of Tonga came just in time, the last apple had been munched, the fauxtato was rapidly running out, and so we descended on Neiafu in the Vava’u group of islands and headed straight to a restaurant to resume the lard-off. Neiafu is a little corner of paradise, a yachtie heaven deep in the heart of the South Pacific, where Palangis (foreigners) have set up shop in their hundreds and are welcomed with open arms. Captain Cook named Tonga ‘The Friendly Islands’ when he sailed here many moons ago and the accuracy of that statement is just as true today as it was then. In the space of a week I have been offered a job, a free place to stay, enjoyed oh so many drinks on the house, and been invited to church. There is a great balance here between locals and visitors and I have fallen in love with it.

So in a bold move against the little sensible person who usually resides on my shoulder, I have abandoned ship, leaving the sailing vessel Esprit in my metaphorical wake and striking out alone. One of the potential hazards of this particular kind of hitchhiking is that personalities can clash and with no more than a few metres to separate you from your fellow crew it can become a little stifling. Let’s just say I didn’t necessarily like the cut of my former captain’s jib, and was eager to see what opportunities might open up if I took a chance on Tonga. So as I write this email I am a boat-less sailor, a nomad of the open seas and am bravely sticking out my thumb in the hope that another yacht will take pity on me.

Despite my initial fears that I might be stranded in this paradise forever (woe is me) my bravery has been rewarded and within a few hours of officially leaving my yacht I have been offered not one but two crewing positions on other boats. They say beggars can’t be choosers but I think that ‘they’ were not in Neiafu so I am currently being a yacht snob. I am enjoying myself far too much here to set sail again too quickly so am currently staying put, throwing myself head first into a great little community that has made me feel more than welcome. And if all else fails I can always stay here and have lots of Tongan babies because the locals sure are pretty (don’t worry Mum, that’s a joke…sort of).

So watch this space. I could be back on a boat before the week is out, heading to Fiji, Vanuatu or well, anywhere, or I could hang around for a month, who knows. Afterall this is a place where the school uniform is comprised of a skirt for the boys, there’s a pub quiz on Wednesdays and a weekly drag show in which local Fakaleitis dance to Kylie Minogue. What more could you possibly hope for?

As if to make up for the boredom and monotony of my Pacific crossing the last week has been a whirlwind of activity, shady deals and cultural diversity: from Polynesian men with tattoos covering half of their faces, and a transvestite waitress who wore her lip liner in an evil clown style, to an alcoholic pearl dealer offering me his hand in marriage.

Since my last blog I have been on land not once but three times, having spent a few days in Nuka Hiva in Les Marquises, 24 hours on the tiny coral atoll of Ahe in the Tuamotu Archipelago and the best part of a week in sunny Tahiti.

In between land the sailing has been approximately the same, water in all directions and saltiness all round. Salty hair, skin, and clothes, I am always salty, like some kind of delicious bar snack. In fact it occurred to me this week, during another of my deep thought night shifts that I share quite a lot with the humble peanut of late, salty, dry roasted by the sun, and a brilliant accompaniment to beer. This dream was shattered though when curiosity got the better of me and like the filthy and disgusting individual I am I licked my arm, only to discover that I am far less delicious than I had hoped.

The arrival of land on the horizon couldn’t have come at a better time as I was seriously beginning to doubt my own sanity (as demonstrated by the peanut analogy and by the worrying fact that I caught myself pulling faces at my own reflection while on the graveyard shift). However, Nuka Hiva is a tiny island with an even tinier town so my few days there were a slow reintroduction into the world of civilisation.

Though small and quiet, with only one restaurant and 2.5 shops, it was amazing to have more than four people to talk to, and more than 44ft to move in one direction. On the downside I did have to shower and at least consider brushing my hair. That’s one thing that I definitely don’t miss about civilisation, I’ve grown quite fond of the semi hobo look, so much so that I continued modelling my vagabond chic on land, embracing French Polynesian culture by eating brie and baguettes, and drinking red wine while sitting on the beach, barefoot and dirty like a shipwrecked sailor.

I celebrated the big 23 in style and spent my birthday traipsing through the jungle with the heavily tattooed descendants of cannibals (seriously, Google it) in order to see what I am assured is the third highest waterfall in the world. Standing at 310 metres I suppose it was pretty big, but I was more interested in swimming in the pools and re-enacting an advert for new improved herbal infused all natural essence of aloe organic fusion key amino tropical jungle protective conditioning shampoo. While I busied myself with this important task I failed to notice that the pool in which I swam was also home to a family of massive eels, with savage pointy teeth and evil Wayne Rooney faces. My vision of paradise came crashing down around me as I ran screaming from the pool. You will be pleased to hear that I escaped wound free, and none of the locals tried to eat me during my stay so all in all it was an amazing birthday, and not one I’ll forget in a hurry.

Our departure from Les Marquises was not nearly so epic as our next stop was a mere 4 days sailing. However, a few nights of bad wind slowed our progress considerably and threatened my sanity once again. One night, during a particularly boring 2-4am lookout shift, while cruising at the daredevil, batten down the hatches, man over board speed of 3 knots, I watched with horror as a cloud, yes that’s right, a cloud, overtook us. I was only able to console myself with the fact that this turbo charged boy racer super cloud looked a bit like Africa on the radar. There’s nothing like some endless boredom to kick start your imagination.

Luckily we managed to catch some good wind during the day and we did eventually make it to Ahe, one of the largest landmasses in the Tuamoto group of islands. It seems ‘large’ is a term that is applied quite loosely when it comes to Pacific atolls as from the beach at one end of the island I could see all the way to the other side.

Having exhausted the island’s major attractions and reluctant to get back on the yacht I wandered aimlessly down the street, chasing crabs, and looking at the amazing selection of food in the shop, including “celebrity sausages” (insert your own sausage worthy celebrity here). As I turned a corner an extremely drunk man waving a tea towel tried to get my attention. As I got closer I saw that this was no ordinary drunk man but a drunken man with a bag of pearls. So I went over to say hello.

With one hand on a can of Heineken and the other resting lazily on a huge pile of pearls, the man looked me up and down, peering at me through one eye. He squinted through his drunken haze, and then declared “very beauty…” he paused, whether for effect or to remember the word in English I’m not sure, and then he triumphantly proclaimed “FULL, very beautiful!” Quite what he hoped the outcome of this would be was not made clear, perhaps he envisioned me offering my body in exchange for pearls, I’m not entirely sure. Either way once he realised that I was not going to be forthcoming in offering myself as a prostitute he fell back on safer ground. “Whisky!!!” he exclaimed, laughing to himself and pushing the pearls towards me “one bottle, one pearl”.

The moral questions raised by trading alcohol for pearls are ominous. Besides the fact it’s probably illegal the man in question looked like he could do with a night off the booze, but it seems this local man was just out to make a quick buck and who am I to turn down a bargain. After an hour of turning down marriage proposals and the promise of “beucoup enfants” I walked away with a pocket full of pearls. Luckily (for me) I had bought a bottle of Mexican tequila as a present for someone in Australia and was able to swap it for 6 shiny pearls. So even though I will be arriving empty handed down under I will look fabulous (darling) in my pearls. Now that I’ve got my hands on some treasure, and the fact that I climbed the rigging this week means that I am back on track in my pursuit of piracy.

Just when I thought my week couldn’t get any better I arrived in Tahiti which is one of the most culturally bizarre places I have been. This is a place where men wear 1980s style scrunchhies in their hair, old ladies with traditional flower headdresses eat McFlurrys, and everybody, young and old, men and women, wear Oakleys and board shorts as if they might catch a narly wave at any moment (should that be gnarly or are surf dudes too cool for silent Gs?)

I must take off my proverbial hat to the Tahitian tourist board that has done a sterling job of promoting Tahiti as some kind of beach paradise, which it is not. It’s more of a neon hubbub in the middle of nowhere, a strange mini France where people play boule and drink red wine in a concrete jungle better suited to central London than the South Pacific. I love it.

After a day of hitchhiking (which is ridiculous easy seeing as though there are only about two roads) I made it around the entire island and saw most of the sights. The following day, having failed to find my beach paradise I decided to do the right thing and visit a museum, if nothing else this was a good opportunity to spend time away from the rest of the crew. Don’t get me wrong they’re a good bunch but 44ft is so small. In fact if you’ve got the space, stand up now and walk about 20 steps. That’s it. Anyway, the God of fun was looking down on me and while hitching to the museum I was picked up by a gang of students who’d just finished their final exams. To cut a long story short, the nicest beaches are hidden from tourists, I never made it to the museum and I am mildly hungover. Three cheers for student banter. My sanity is at least partly restored.

We set sail again tomorrow for Nui which no-one, including me has ever heard of. It is over 1000 nautical miles away so you’ve got at least 10 days to recover from this blog.

Lots of love Kate

p.s. I saw a partially blind cat with a pearl as a fake eye. That is way bling yo.

Thanks to Carol Esther for the amusing peanut people photo