The Curious Incident of the Deflating Neck Pillow in the Aeroplane

What a week - in 10 days I have been to the US, Belize and Honduras; I have travelled on six planes; an airport bus; a very long-distance bus; four underground trains; one double-decker train; two watertaxis; one disconcertingly small international boat; a golf-cart; multiple taxis and cars; and most excitingly, a bicycle.  

I have sat on two roof terraces and swung in two hammocks; I have met an entire airport full of missionaries; I have made all sorts of friends along way, many of whom have made it into this blog.  I even met an angel with a pull-a-long case - I am going to e-mail her to thank her and will be seeking help from friends who can write in Spanish - whoever knew that an angel could have an e-mail address and a pull-a-long case?

I made some #BagelFriends at Houston - an American couple bound for Australia where he was addressing a conference.  We had a good conversation about the breakdown of society and the demise of language due to the advent of technology - nice light subject matter over a yummy cream-cheese bagel.  I said farewell to them then sat by the gate and suddenly I wasn't the only one with a 'fabulous' accent any more, I was surrounded by them.  

I decided to give Peter Rabbit another chance on the plane, by watching it in French, which I claim to speak and even understand.  I think I got about 75% of the story, but I still don't like the epipen bit, or the violence either way, or the explosion, in fact, I still don't like any of it - I won't be recommending it, in any language.  

The friendly United staff plied me with food and drink throughout, but I was discombobulated by my neck pillow which has taken on an angry personality since it fell into a puddle on the disconcertingly small international boat and now deflates at will in protest.

Other than an angry deflating neck pillow, the journey was smooth.  In no time at all, I had e-gated my way through arrivals, grabbed my faithful orange tortoise and was helping two confused Austrians to top-up their Oyster cards at Heathrow Terminal 2 underground station.  

Picking up the threads of normality is always a bit of a challenge - five e-mail inboxes full of requests and demands; a massive pile of post to go through.  I was convinced it was Saturday and couldn't understand why I couldn't buy a Saturday Guardian.  That would have been useful for sitting on whilst on that choppy sea - although The Guardian hasn't been the same since it went to tabloid format - what was wrong with the quirky Berliner format eh? But there were no Saturday Guardians in any format, due to it being Sunday.

Part of me still feels like I'm on that boat, I can still feel the motion and the crash of uncertainty as those Carribean waves lashed the bow, despite now sitting at my desk in Plumstead watching the neighbour opposite walk her tiny white dog up the road.  

So - I took action to have adventures; I was well (apart from on that death-defying boat trip where I was very sick); I expressed myself, both through this blog and to the multitude of interesting people whom I met on the road; I got to know myself more through hours of travel and reflection; I honed skills for my future, like blogging.  (Guiding friends will see what I did there).

Here endeth this blog.  Thanks for being such faithful followers - I can't see who has been reading it, but the stats are high, so it wasn't just me reading it back to myself.  I hope you've enjoyed it, laughed and cried along with me.  Thanks for sharing the adventure.  Thanks for all the lovely comments on Facebook too - maybe one day I'll collate the various blogs into a book.  

Whilst you're there, if you buy things online, have I mentioned that doing so through easyfundraising generates a donation for the Guides? Effortlessly support our fundraising for our next epic international adventure! 

Adiós amigos.

The Angel with the Pull-a-Long Case

The Angel appeared unto me.  

'Do you speak English?'

'No.  Donde?'

'Palmira Hostel.'

'Palmira?'

'Si.  It used to be in Ecuadorian Embassy'.

'No, no, no siente'.

Angel thinks a minute.  

'Si, si, Embassario'.

<Angel opens google translate on her phone and types furiously>

Angel shows me the phone.

It says 'I go over there'.

'You are going there too?' I exclaim.

Thanks to google translate, she explained that she was living close to the Embassy, having just been with the Ambassador of Honduras in the US.  I couldn't quite believe that this was happening.  A woman I hadn't even noticed on the bus was now offering me a lift to my budget hotel.

Her driver arrived and she showed him the Palmira Hostel on the google map.  I climbed in and we drove for what felt like miles.  

Some of you will be thinking - I can't believe that you actually got into a car with a complete stranger.  I hasten to add that travelling alone is a curious phenomenon, awash with pros and cons.  The pros - you reconnect with yourself; you reconnect with your faith because it is often all you have to rely on; you have incredible adventures which others will never have; you chat to all sorts of people that you probably wouldn't chat to if you were travelling with someone.  Fundamentally, you have to decide very swiftly whether you can trust someone.  In this situation, the choice was simple - stay alone in a dangerous capital at a now deserted bus station, or go with a kindly lady whose driver is on his way.  Were I to be leading a group, I would obviously have organised for a local vehicle to meet us at the bus station; but I wasn't, it was just me.  

The cons of travelling alone? There is no-one I can turn to in three months and say 'do you remember when...' because no-one was there with me; also, it can be a bit lonely eating by oneself - I find that on the road, it's always pleasant to have a companion with whom to have a drink or a meal - you only need to them what you want to about yourself and your life - and you'll probably never see them again anyway.  The word 'companion' comes from the French - 'comme' meaning 'with' and 'pain' meaning 'bread', therefore someone with whom your share your bread.  

We arrived at Palmira Hostel, 'the best budget hotel in Honduras' - to be fair, I'm not sure how much competition there is.  I was hoping that the bar would still be open so that I could spend one final night sipping beer on a roof terrace.  But there was no beer; in fact, there was no bar either.

My little room had a little balcony, and I sat there for an hour or so writing last night's blog, then settled down to sleep.  I was worried about mosquitoes, until I remembered the six hours I'd spent travelling away from the coast, so stopped worrying at that point.

I had envisaged a chilled out evening experiencing Tegucigalpa, but it wasn't to be.  I spent the hour I had in the morning soaking up the view of the city, much of which seems to be built into the mountains, swinging in a hammock for one final time, and frantically trying to finish the book I was reading.  There was a quirky roof terrace with some nice furniture, including a wooden swing from which to watch the world. 

I checked out and met a French lady who was also travelling by herself- we spoke French, which I can speak; she also speaks Spanish, which is very useful in that part of the world.  She appeared to be a wanderer, taking each day as it comes, choosing day-by-day how long to stay where.

A taxi-man kindly took me to the airport which has got to be amongst the tiniest international airports in the world.  I breakfasted right by the flight strip (in a café overlooking it, rather than on the runway, which was not permitted) and finally finished my book! I checked in, perused the souvenir shops, then went on through security. 

I had the most thorough security check from a friendly immigration individual.  She emptied my entire rucksack in front of me, locating all sorts of items I had lost in the depths of my bag on the trip, for which I was grateful, but could not convey my gratitude in Spanish, for fearing of accidentally confirming that I was carrying something dodgy, which I obviously wasn't.  She seemed particularly interested in my front door keys and key-ring, especially the winking mini emoji cushion which I think she was hoping was stuffed with something.  

Tegucigalpa Airport was awash with missionaries! I have never seen so many missionaries.  At least three different missions had taken place that week in Honduras, and the missionaries were now heading home to various parts of the US.  There were big missionaries and small missionaries, old missionaries and child missionaries.  One group were clad in blue t-shirts - I spend a lot of time with people in blue t-shirts, so I knew they were ok.  I chatted at length with some of them and had some very interesting faith conversations.  They had been doing all sorts of medical work in Honduras, as well as dentistry, taking their skills to serve the people of Honduras. 

Another group were clad in grey t-shirts with an acronym and 'More Than Medicine' emblazoned across their chests.  Their mission was meant to be in Nicaragua, but there is a little-known civil war there at the moment, which I didn't know about.  I have always wanted to go to Nicaragua since I first found a postage stamp from Nicaragua back in my philately days that sparked my interest in the world - it had a chicken on it.  I hadn't heard of Nicaragua before seeing that stamp and looked it up on a map.  I nearly went there on this trip, but probably best that I didn't.  Maybe next time, once I've learnt sufficient Spanish to get by; being able to order beer is useful, as is being able to ask the President of Chile where the toilets are, but I can't help thinking that a lot of other conversational Spanish would be extremely useful.  

I had a long conversation with one of the grey t-shirts who told me all about the work they had done treating poorly animals in Honduras.  In the next conversation he was telling me that he and his wife are great hunters and spend their weekends shooting things.  There must be some logic in there somewhere, but it felt like a bit of an oxymoron to me - the Animal Loving Shooters.  

About to board the London flight now.  Sleep tight people.

The Cat Boy Part Dos

Once my pterodactyl thumbs had finally got themselves into the right position and Mr Immigration Man was happy, he waved he through - 'thank you for letting me in - sorry about my funny thumbs', I retorted.  That sounds daft in English and doesn't mean a thing in Spanish.  I should have learnt some more Spanish before coming here - I can do the important things, like order beer, ask where the toilets are, in both the familiar and formal ways - I learnt this when I went to the World Scout Jamboree in Chile and vividly remember learning both just in case the President of Chile was there and I had to ask him where the toilets were.

On the boat, as well as two abnormally tall Australian backpackers, there was a European boy who had a spectacular animal tattoo adorning his arm, featuring all sorts of fantastic animals.  He had an Animal Rights wristband on and seemed to be travelling, but not backpacker style.  He had sat with the backpackers during the boat crossing, whilst I was busy vomiting.  We fell into conversation whilst queuing for immigration.  It transpires that he is going around Central and South America working in animal sanctuaries.  He had just been helping out at one in Belize where there are now only thirty cats.  I got a bit confused because I thought he meant there are only thirty cats in the whole of Belize, which even though it is a small country, that's not many cats.  There are probably more than that in my road.  But he meant in the sanctuary.  I didn't feel stupid at all when I explained that I thought he meant in the whole of Belize.  Hey ho.  

There was a taxi man working the queue, advising on how we could get to San Pedro Sula, the massive transport hub which is - in theory - about an hour away.  I was keen to get a cab because I had to catch the 6pm long distance bus to the capital.  My new friends agreed that we would share a cab, which we proceeded to do.  Local buses were available but time was not on our side.  We bundled into the cab.  The Cat Boy spoke Spanish, as did one of the Australians.  I couldn't even fathom if we were going to make it in time for me to take the 6pm bus.  We got stuck in traffic, the likes of which I have never seen; it makes sitting at Five Ways, Green Lane in rush-hour, look like a picnic.  The driver swerved in and out of the traffic, as best he could, but we were beset by massive lorries, squawking local buses, thousands and thousands of cars.  The driver pulled off and took another route.  That was packed too.  He tried something else.  I started to worry - what would I do if I missed that bus? It was 4 hours to the capital and there wasn't another bus that day.  I saw a Pizza Hut - I envisaged curling up next to a large stuffed crust Hawaiian overnight, then taking the first bus in the morning, to the capital, then straight to the airport.  6pm past.  Cat Boy had booked somewhere to stay and I thought about asking if I could go with him.  But I hesitated as I could imagine that he might have booked a hammock in the corner of an animal sanctuary, which wasn't quite what I had in mind. I thought of stopping a passing motorbike and asking if I could jump on the back and be whisked to the bus station - I did that once in heavy traffic in Cambodia and made the flight with seconds to spare.  But I didn't have enough Spanish to be able to convey this in the precious minutes remaining, plus I am certain that my travel insurance policy wouldn't cover that, despite having not read it.  

I asked The Cat Boy to ask the driver if there was another bus to the capital, Tegucigalpa.  He casually said that the last one went at 6.30pm.  It was already 6.21pm.  Things weren't looking good.  'Carry me there', I prayed.  Suddenly, the drive swerved to the left - 'is here, is here', he exclaimed.  He stopped right outside, I pressed the cash into his hand, said goodbye to the new travelling companions, grabbed my awkward orange tortoise from the boot and ran like a thing possessed, into the bus station.  'Bus to capital?' I panted at some cab drivers touting for business - 'Is Viara', said one of them, pointing ahead and to the left.  I ran through the door; they ran after me - 'No Senora, Viara' - indicating that I had run through the wrong door.  I ran through the right door, the sweat beading on my face and pouring off me.  One day I will get round to doing some exercise, but it won't be any time soon.

'Bus to capital, is possible?' - I'd even lost command of English at this point, I was in such a flap.  'Si', came the dulcet reply, and the teller calmly sold me a ticket to Tegucigalpa.  I almost collapsed, partly with joy, partly because I'd vomited up breakfast on the boat and hadn't had anything else since - you can't pull your weight when you haven't got much to pull.

The bus turned out to the a luxury, air-conditioned situation, where I had a window seat with plenty of space.  A kind lady wearing an apron worked the bus, bringing myself and the rest of the passengers all sorts of things - water, hot sweet coffee, a pillow, a blanket, a little bag to put the rubbish in.  About two hours in she even gave me a tiny pastry.  I was so hungry at this point that I nearly ate the clingfilm it was wrapped in as well - then I remembered about that Facebook video about how some lettuce is actually made out of plastic! Trust no-one.

I wanted to take this long-distance bus to see something of Honduras.  I think on reflection that is about as sensible as saying 'I want to drive up the M1 to see what the UK is like'.  I do like journeys though, and saw some interesting things that you just do not see elsewhere.  I always draw on that poem 'Slow Dance', the line where it says 'when you rush so fast to get somewhere, you miss half the fun of getting there'.  Had it not been dark, I would have seen more.

Since I started travelling age 19, I have learned to try to not arrive at an unknown capital after dark.  We pulled into Tegucigalpa, Honduras, a capital totally unknown to me, at about 11.30pm.  I was expecting a bustling bus station, alive with people, snacks and a plethora of cab drivers.  Instead there were two men, one of whom had a very large gun.  I couldn't quite believe it.  Plus I had neglected to look at where my budget hotel was in relation to where the bus was arriving; in fact, I didn't know where the bus was arriving.  It could have been arriving in the equivalent of Greenwich, with the hotel in the equivalent of Stanmore.  I asked the lady who had provided the snacks, pillow and blanket if she knew where I could take a cab from; she didn't.  I asked the man with the very large gun; he didn't know either.

There I stood, awkward orange tortoise on one shoulder, small black rucksack on the other, in the middle of the night, in the capital of Honduras.  

Then an angel appeared.

The Cat Boy

They don’t shout about the boat that goes from Belize City to Puerto Cortes.  The terminal is entirely dominated by the Water Taxi Express to San Pedro and Caye Caulker and the plethora of men in their bottle-green jackets, there isn’t even a sign telling you where to get tickets for the Honduras boat, you just have to ask around until you find someone who knows.  Once I did find the right person – ‘the lady will be in the cashier 1 window, but she isn’t there yet’ – the advice was – ‘it’s the blue boat, not the green one’.  Sound. 

The morning had started with a quick coffee courtesy of the delightful Red Hut Inn – highly recommended if you happen to find yourself in Belize City and want somewhere quiet and chilled, with a roof terrace obviously, where you can swing in a hammock.  You can take your own food or walk to nearby eateries.  There is a fridge full of soft drinks and beer – help yourself and add it to your tab.

The taxi driver came as requested at 7.30am.  I shared the vehicle with one of my American friends from last night who had unfortunately left her camera on Caye Caulker so was heading back there to retrieve it as it had been found! I can sympathise, having left important things strewn across the world, ranging from someone else’s video camera in Cambodia, to my passport in Australia, to all of my clothes in Hong Kong.  So far this trip I have only left my shower gel and shampoo in the shower at Sandbar in San Pedro, but there’s still time.

The taxi driver sounded disconcertingly familiar – he is from Ilford! This surreal travelling life – you’re in a residential backstreet on the outskirts of a Central American capital, taking a cab to a port to go to Honduras, and the cab driver is from Ilford – “Central Line innit”!

I sat and waited for cashier 1 window to open – she was in no hurry.  Once she had opened, I swiftly purchased my ticket then went in search of some breakfast, enjoying coffee and scrambled egg in a little café in the long avenue of tourist places which line the path to the port.

In my head, I’d drawn a mental picture of the boat, as one does.  I was envisaging an Isle of Wight style ferry, huge with multiple levels, a massive queue of people waiting to board, a café/bar with copious snacks and drinks.  The boat arrived.  It was about as overwhelming as the underwhelming bridge – which was not overwhelming at all (that will make sense if you’ve followed the whole blog – you deserve a medal if so)

I parted with my giant orange tortoise which has served me so well these last few days and clambered aboard.  I smiled at some backpackers and The Cat Boy with whom I would later share a vehicle.  This time the staff wore white or blue t-shirts, or generic t-shirts – it wasn’t disconcerting at all when I had to hand my passport over to someone in a t-shirt he probably got from the Belizean equivalent of Primark. 

They explained that in 1.5 hours, we would be going through Belizean immigration, that our passports would be collected and that we would pay the departure tax.   I resolved to read the other half of my book for that time.  I have nearly finished it and am still waiting for something to happen.  The crossing was fine initially.  I read, observed, enjoyed the gentle spray as it brushed my face periodically.  We got to immigration and Bob Marley joined the boat, which gave it a bit more character.  The boat staff sorted out the passports – we even paid them the departure tax.  I always feel a bit nervous when my passport isn’t in my possession, for obvious reasons.  I’ve had it strapped to my waist in my trusty money-belt since starting the travelling leg of this adventure, so didn’t feel right without it.  That said, there are copies of it in at least three different places, so that would make it easier to get a replacement if needed, although it would take time and be a palaver.  I had to do that when I got mugged in Ghana – I ended up with a shiny new passport which said ‘Place of Issue – British High Commission Accra’ which was a bit of a novelty, but not the reason for needing a new passport – that was terrifying.

It was after we left the immigration point that the water became much choppier.  They had said that it might get a bit choppy, but I wasn’t worried – how bad could it be?

Think all of those dreadful nightmarish rides at Chessington, Thorpe Park, those sort of places – combine all of those stomach-churning situations into the worse possible feeling of nausea, of crashing through waves with such veracity that you feel like you’ve left various internal organs behind.  I tried to lie down, I tried to close my eyes, I tried to stand up and stick my head out of the window, nothing worked.  Sweat poured out of my every pore and I felt dreadful.  I sat with my head between my legs, I could feel myself turning green.  Usually when someone tells me they feel travel-sick, I give them a piece of newspaper to sit on, which works a treat.  There wasn’t any newspaper to hand on this occasion.

I looked up to see one of the blue-clad men kindly offering me a bag into which to vomit, which I duly did.  I thought about calling this entry ‘Vomiting in No Man’s Land’, but I wasn’t sure you would read it.  I haven’t been sick like this since my Guatemala anti-malarials had a run-in with my Rwanda anti-malarials – that was equally unpleasant.

I hasten to add that several other people were sick as well, it wasn’t just me.  I have never been travel-sick, although I did used to feel a bit woozy on the DLR.

The trip was about 5 hours – if you look at a map you can see the physical distance – it’s certainly more than the 2 inches on the map.  The underwhelming boat left Belize City at about 10am and arrived at Puerto Cortes at about 3pm.  It is a very long way and I would not do it again except in an emergency.    

We finally reached calmer waters and pulled into Puerto Cortes, then lined up for the immigration procedures.  They had one of those finger-printing machines like they do in the US, but I had just sprayed Deet onto my feet, then covered my hands in anti-bac, as one done, plus I have double-jointed thumbs like a pterodactyl, so not only did my fingers not show as having fingerprints, my funny thumbs wouldn’t fit onto the machine either! So they nearly didn’t let me in to Honduras. 

An epic six further hours of travel followed, including log-jams in the traffic of Puerto Cortes, a long-distance bus to Tegucigalpa from where I now write, having met an actual angel at the bus station.  But I’ll write more about all that in the next instalment.  That and the Cat Boy.

Famille Cochon d'Inde

The fish got in touch.  They were too busy for me today.  Hey ho.

I breakfasted whilst a gentle storm stirred itself in the mid-distance, enjoying refillable coffee and a carb-loaded egg muffin-type situation to prepare me, just in case the fish had a change of heart.  They didn't.

Travel eh? What a privilege it is to be able to just wander, read, write, just be.  WiFi everywhere means that one is never really cut-off for any length of time.  How surreal that I can be lying in a hammock in Belize City and exchanging instant messages with people in the UK.

I took the San Pedro Water Taxi at 10am, enjoying watching the set-up of the smooth operation by the bottle-green clad bunch who considered our every need.  The boat was a sound balance of tourists and locals, variously travelling to or from work, to their next destination, all whilst chatting or dozing in the ocean breeze.

I was sitting next to a human guinea pig - he had little rounded cheeks, a tiny guinea pig face with beady eyes and limited facial expressions.  I could just imagine him munching on a lettuce leaf - is that what guinea pigs eat? That's what Peter Rabbit enjoyed, but probably best not get me started on 'What's Wrong With Peter Rabbit the Film' - I can almost hear Beatrix spinning in her grave, poor woman.

Mr Guinea Pig was married to Mrs Guinea Pig and they had two little Guinea Piglets, one of whom had the classic guinea pig features, the other, well, one could not be entirely sure.  The Guinea Pig family were francophone - my heart sank when one after the other, they plugged headphones into their various devices, in order to isolate themselves from each other and the other boat-goers.  Honestly! Talk about epitomising the breakdown of society! I wanted to say,

"For goodness sake, Famille Cochon d'Inde... (note to readers - that's French for Family Guinea Pig - it translates as 'Pig of India' you know) - you are in Belize - BELIZE!! Is this really the time to shut yourself off from humanity?! Tear yourselves away from your devices and embrace these incredible and beautiful surroundings!!"

I decided on balance not to say this.

I had chatted with a lady in the boarding queue where we shared our disappointment at this tiny girl, who can't have been more than 6-years-old, made up in full adult make-up - foundation, eye-shadow, eye-liner - we both did a double-take, thinking that it was our sunglasses confusing our eyes, but no, she was fully made-up, like a fully made-up adult.  The lady in the queue told me about a friend of hers who did this from a very young age and now has volcanoes in her skin! I surmised that this may have been a slight exaggeration.  I never exaggerate.  

The boat journey was smooth and as organised as you'd expect from people wearing bottle green (Newstead reference).  We changed boats at Caye Caulker and I watched them load my rucksack into the second vessel - I've tweeted a few pictures of this trip here - I don't put pictures into my blogs - I don't think they tell a thousand words and they certainly don't convey my thoughts.

I took a taxi to the Red Hut Inn, a basic guesthouse on the outskirts of Belize City.  I was early for check-in, so spent some time sipping Coke, reading parts of Lonely Planet Belize which was in the Red Hut Inn library and swinging in a hammock on the roof terrace - I love roof terraces.  The guesthouse is simple but cosy - I booked it through Expedia - did I mention that doing so generates a donation via easyfundraising?

And now? I write to you from 'Belamari at Seashore', a quirky restaurant which is actually in the sea - the water is seriously choppy and the palm trees are struggling, but the staff assure me that a hurricane is not impending and that all is ok.  I'm not so sure.

It was interesting reading Lonely Planet retrospectively - whilst I used to be a Lonely Planet stalwart, methinks on reflection that prospective consumption of Lonely Planet and their travel guides can influence one too much - that said, on previous travels, I have lived by these guides, highlighting bits, ripping out particular country chapters; I even feature in Lonely Planet West Africa (check out the listing on contributors at the back), plus I'm in four editions of Phillip Briggs' Bradt Guide to Ghana - I have my very own grey box about travelling in West Africa as a lone woman.

It's hard to know how safe it is here - Lonely Planet mentions that violent crime is not unusual in Belize City, but it's not that uncommon in Plumstead ether.  So realistically, one just has to be sensible and savvy everywhere.  Walk positively and people think you know where you're going - story of my life.  My valuables are stashed about my person, so even if my bag gets snatched, they'll end up with a book of my ramblings, insect repellent, suncream, hand sanitiser and an extremely useful Girlguiding Buckinghamshire drawstring bag.  

Sleep tight friends.

The Underwhelming Bridge

I write from possibly one of the most peaceful places on earth – a deserted beach bar! But it’s along a long jetty, so I am effectively in the sea.  When I say deserted, I don’t mean deserted in the same way that the deserted slave fort I accidentally slept at in Ghana, was deserted, I mean that there is nobody else here, save for a couple of ubiquitous staff and a friendly Alsatian.  I’m not going to eat here for two reasons – firstly, I’m not hungry at the moment; secondly, it’s never a good indicator for a restaurant if nobody is eating in it (I mean, within, rather than “innit”) – if the food was good, people would be eating.  I’m sipping a bottle of Coke, in a reassuring glass bottle.  I’m not complaining about the lack of company – the general public are around so often – everywhere one goes, in fact.

The walk here has been spectacular and peaceful – I walked up the beach from where I am staying, crossed the bridge which connects the north and south islands of San Pero – I have never seen a more underwhelming bridge.  The bridge I played Pooh Sticks on in the Ashdown Forest on my Bronze Duke of Edinburgh expedition made more of a statement than the north/south San Pedro bridge.

Prior to this, the morning had been interesting – I agreed with myself that I would do something unique today that one can only do here.  But I am about as far removed as one can be from being an adventurous activities type.  Although I remember when I decided that I would go whitewater rafting on the Nile in Jinja, Uganda, but only because Gandhi once had, or something like that. 

I think it’s the risk factors which are overwhelming.  I am a safeguarding trainer so see risk everywhere.  This is good, but it does make one think twice about doing anything.  That said, one week at Rainbows, we hired an ice-rink and took 160 Rainbows and their families ice-skating, without incident.  Three weeks later, in a regular Rainbow meeting, a Rainbow leaned over another Rainbow to see something, and ended up getting a pencil in the eye and having to go to hospital.  Yes, fear not, the correct forms were competed and submitted, don’t worry.  My point is that accidents often happen in the most innocuous of settings.

I thought about hiring a golf buggy but realistically, what if I hit someone, or accidentally drive into the sea? What if I run over an animal? I thought about hiring a bicycle, but what if I fall off and get a head injury? What if I get a puncture? What if it gets stolen? I didn’t read the small print of my shiny new travel insurance policy – in fact, now I think about it, I didn’t read any of it – in fact, I didn’t even download it – I was too excited about the £7.50 easyfundraising donation that purchasing the policy generated.  Oh gosh, that doesn’t sound good, does it? Obviously, if I was leading a group I would have analysed the policy and its minutiae in great detail.

I met a lady who was walking two little Highland Terriers.  She was holidaying from Florida with her large brood of children and grandchildren and was taking a welcome break from them.  The dogs took to me as they sensed that I am a Dog Whisperer.  In the hostel this morning, I saw a poster from a local dog’s home where people can turn up and walk the stray dogs! I thought of how my various #DogFriends love their walks and was tempted, but then I remembered the rabies risk.  I think I had a rabies jab a while ago, but I’m not sure how those antibodies are doing (see yesterday’s post about the bamboozling change of heart by those yellow fever antibodies) – that was bizarre, as I wrote the bit about the dog, the resident Alsatian came and lay down next to me! I truly am the Dog Whisperer.  Moving back to the rabies risk, I don’t know if this still applies, but the rabies jab doesn’t prevent rabies, it just gives you more time to get to hospital, before you die.  I think on balance I will skip the dog-walking idea. 

The lady from Florida told me that she had taken the dogs on the aeroplane with her.  I think possibly they were Emotional Support Animals – I read an article about them in The Guardian recently.  In the US, you can register an animal as an Emotional Support Animal – there are all sorts of stories of people registering dogs, cats, peacocks and piglets.  The other people on the plane are not necessarily ok with this – imagine if the Australian with the weak bladder on my transatlantic flight had had an emotional support piglet with him – I might have made a #PigletFriend.

I had a spot of hammock time in that deserted beach bar, lost in my thoughts, still in disbelief that I am in such a beautiful place.  I walked on and on and on, around five miles or so.  I saw so many lizards of varying shapes and sizes, some huge iguana-types were sunbathing, other tiny weeny lizards scurried across my path as they felt my light footsteps. 

I walked along the beach most of the time, across the front of a wide variety of types of accommodation – exquisite beachfront hotels with uniformed staff, angry signs about the sun-loungers being for residents only; tiny shack-like beach bars, one of which had a swimming pool attached which could be used by bar-users – part of me wished I had put my swimming stuff on (especially my new tiny tank), so that I could have plunged in.  The heat was intense, although the sun less so – I had awoken to a monsoon this morning, which cooled the sun; there was another thunderstorm this evening; I had dinner in the restaurant here, watching the world go by and gathering my thoughts, before evacuating to a covered part of the hostel when the wind made things fly around.  The locals are totally unfazed by the thunderstorms and it is business as usual.  Apart from my diving course – the fish don’t like the rain, so they cancelled the diving today.  I have booked myself onto a half-day diving course tomorrow morning – yes, really.  It’s for absolute beginners, so should suit me.  I put a snorkel on once, on a jaunt to the Kenyan coast on the mysterious island of Lamu, after spending a semester studying African Christian Theology in Uganda in 2005, as you do.  That was shortly before all of my stuff was stolen from a long-distance bus in Mombasa – to this day, I do not put things in overhead storage areas on any transport.  I say all of my stuff, it was just clothes and travelling bits and bobs, my valuables were strategically stashed about my person, obviously; but it was disconcerting nonetheless as I wasn’t aware I was being robbed.  Anyway, tomorrow shall be my diving day – isn’t that a Rutter Christmas carol? Oh no sorry, that’s ‘Tomorrow Shall Be My Dancing Day’.  Well it certainly shalln’t be that.

Further along the beach, I met another friendly Alsatian puppy, with an American lady who has lived here for seven years, since her husband died.  She couldn’t quite believe how far I had walked.  We chatted for a while.  That is the joy of travel – you spend a few minutes with a person, learn a little about them and often their dog, wish them well, then probably never see them again. 

I walked back towards the hostel, partly along the beach, partly along the road, dodging the multitude of golf buggies.  Just after crossing the underwhelming bridge, I bumped into someone I had met at breakfast who offered me a lift back in her golf buggy, so I did get to travel in a golf buggy.  I haven’t been in a golf buggy since we took all the Rainbows, Brownies, Guides and soon-to-be Rangers, to footgolf at Birchwood Golf and Country Club in July, although I don’t think their golf buggies go on the roads.  If I was here for longer, I might have hired one as they certainly speed things up.  I had thoughts of heading to ‘Secret Beach’ which is on the other side of the island, but I have my suspicions that it isn’t that secret, due to being on lots of maps.  So I’m quite happy to have wandered, making friends with people, their dogs, and a plethora of lizards.

Mr Flowers and the bank problem

Greetings friends –

I left you just as I was about to board a flight to the little known country of Belize.  What’s the capital of Belize? That’s right – ‘B’. 

This flight was quite turbulent in places and amidst all the complimentary drinks and cute bags of pretzels, I don’t know how a huge number of spillages were avoided. 

As befits, I slept for a significant chunk of the journey – I’m great company on a journey.  This time I was not sitting beside a pilot with a sense of humour bypass.  Instead I was sitting next to a lady who smiled sweetly but wouldn’t give me any clues as to which language we might be able to even exchange a few words in – right at the end, she said ‘Taiwan’ and assured me that her mother was in Belize.  This all made perfect sense to me (!) – I think perhaps she was on a secret mission – well, it was secret.

I filled in my customs form but couldn’t work out how many Belize dollars equated to US dollars, so wasn’t sure if I needed to declare my purchases from the US – a little tank and a year’s supply of earrings, not exactly headline news, but you can’t be too careful these days.  Immigration officials around the world don’t have the best sense of humour, in my humble experience, so I didn’t even try to humour them.  Things are certainly better now than when I travelled round West Africa in 2002 – ‘Hey – I will stamp your passport if I can also take you as my wife?’ Fortunately, I was always creative in my responses, describing the house-sized husband awaiting me in whichever place I was heading to; this only got me into trouble once – in Djenné in Mali, when a full description of my husband was requested; I gave this with great certainty, then was categorically assured that no-one matching that description had arrived in the village that year (and it was August).  Fortunately two Polish men turned up, one of whom was the husband I had described.

Once I had cleared immigration, disappointed that my lovingly transported yellow fever certificate was not even mentioned, let alone requested – I found out on the way to get an updated yellow fever jab (£70) that the jab now lasts forever – so the one I had in 1998 didn’t stop working in 2008, it is still working.  The science of this perplexes me, but I won’t overthink it.  I do remember the inoculations bit of biology as that was one of the few bits that I found mildly interesting – I did wonder how the antibodies could think, “well it’s 2008 now, we’re done with this – let’s retire” - then change their minds and decide to stick around forever.  Maybe the union got involved, who knows.

I grabbed my trusty backpack, seriously impressed that it too had made its way through two flights and back onto my back. 

I didn’t really need to bring a huge backpack – I should have shoved what I need into my tiny rucksack and sent the rest home.  I went round West Africa for two months with a change of clothes, Sunday church clothes, wet-wipes, a tiny pot of Marmite, some dental floss (invaluable as stronger than cotton and also makes good washing lines) and my penknife (which I managed to accidentally leave in my hand baggage at the end of a Guide trip to Slovenia in 2017, so had to surrender it there – it had only been to 30+ countries with me, so had no massive sentimental value or anything….)  That was long before the blogging days began – back then I wouldn’t think twice about not checking e-mail for weeks – apart from the time that I went missing in Mali – which I maintain I did not realise – in my defence, at the time there was one internet café in Mali and it wasn’t working when I was there; I didn’t think much more of it.  I will never forget logging onto MSN Messenger (those were the days eh!) when I reached Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso and my sister suddenly messaging – ‘where have you been?! We’ve been worried sick!’

I took a taxi to the port.  This was when I met Mr Flowers.  Mr Flowers is a taxi driver who had just come on shift – I was his first fare.  Unfortunately, his bank card seems to have been stopped and he spent most of the journey on the phone to the bank in a curious hand movement with his elbow perpendicular to his ear, via the operator, then the angry-sounding Mrs Flowers; I felt the anger through the phone and I was in the back of the car – I don’t think I’d like to meet Mrs Flowers, despite her misleading floral name.  Thankfully, the port was right next to the bank, and Mr Flowers was going to go straight there to sort everything out. 

I wandered along to the ticket office and purchased myself a return ticket to an island called San Pedro.  I had not heard of San Pedro until ten days ago, when I was looking for a quirky place to stay in Belize, which would generate a donation for easyfundraising – yes really.  Well, Sandbar Hostel and Restaurant is the place – bookable via Hostelworld.  I had booked a dorm room but decided to upgrade on arrival to my very own room which as well as having a door, has a tiny bathroom, a fridge and a coffee machine! 

The Belize Water Taxi was a quirky 1.5 hour cruise from Belize City port, and I obviously made a #WaterTaxiFriend of a similar age to me, who is mid-way through a Central American jaunt.  I was sitting opposite a lady who was carrying a bag of mangoes and a very large plastic rake – I usually take a very large plastic rake with me on my travels, but had not done so on this occasion.  I watched anxiously as a nearby local family fed their baby daughter plaintain crisps then proceeded to throw her into the air – and catch her, I hasten to add, which she seemed to enjoy, laughing and burbling – to me, the choking risk was palpable; the Guides did their First Aid badge last term, which covered choking, so I was subtly poised to swing into action but mercifully, this was not required. 

The Belize Water Taxi was a very smart and smooth operation – a team of men clad in uniform bottle-green t-shirts – almost Newstead-like (school joke that won’t mean much to most readers – apologies), so I felt quite at home.  How they got all of the luggage loaded into the boat with all of the passengers, and still managed to drive the boat, is beyond me.  There was a short safety briefing before we left, where one of the bottle-green men showed us how to don a life-jacket if needed – the jackets were wedged under two poles in the roof of the lower-deck where I was sitting – half had ‘Sally’ scrawled on them in black marker, the other half had ‘Michelle’ scrawled on them.  Bizarre.   

The boat stopped at Caye Caulker, which is another large island.  I was going to say ‘I think I’ve met her’, but have since found out that it’s pronounced ‘Kai Caulker’ and I haven’t met him.  I have seen on Twitter that there has been a Girlguiding NWE service project there in recent days – I wonder if we will coincide at some point.  I had to stop myself from packing a uniform t-shirt, just in case it was needed – I did tuck in a few promo leaflets though, just in case.   

Anyway, moving back to the present.  The place where I am staying is so close to the beach that it is practically in the sea.  It has its own jetty with places to relax, other little relaxation areas, a tiny swimming pool, and a quirky bar, which is where I am sitting now, sipping beer, which I only do when abroad, a bit like the Coke – fat Coke only when abroad – it’s the small things.

I went for a wander and it’s a great place, but the vehicle of choice seems to be the angry golf buggy – the streets are awash with golf buggy taxis; tourists can hire their own golf buggy taxi; I’ve seen whole families piled into them; they scoot at speed and hoot at anyone who gets in the way – I think the best place to walk is right beside the sea.

I went to a Mexican / Belizean place for dinner and made friends with the waiter who understood my need for the lid of a Coke bottle, because he collects corks! Ah yes, finally, a kindred spirit.  He prepared a delicious burrito for me and told me about his triathlon heroes – the Brownlee brothers.  He has competed in the Central American triathlon championships don’t you know!

I still can’t quite believe that I am here – ten days ago I was on google maps, working out what was a reasonable distance from California to have a little adventure after visiting my sister, now here I am watching golf buggies scoot past, their lights collided with that which is reflected off the water by the Falara bar and grill.  There is a curious cacophony of sounds from this and neighbouring establishments, plus children playing, clueless travellers discussing plans and tales, unfortunate karaoke nearby, a football match droning out of two screens, plus me tappity-tapping on Yoga. 

I feel that tomorrow I should do something unique which one can only do here… watch this space.

Mixed feelings, pilots and pull-a-long cases

Greetings from Mixed Feelings Central tonight, also known as LA international airport.  In the words of my 5-year-old nephew this evening - 'Auntie Helen - why are you going travelling? Why don't you just stay here longer, or go home?' Part of me is wondering the same - I've been cushioned in the most beautiful, comfortable home imaginable, with a friendly dog, a lizard who was not unfriendly, albeit with a slightly shifty look about him (but I think that's most lizards, not that I know many - nay, any, pet lizards), a bouncing nephew, adorable niece, plus obviously my sister and brother-in-law, and what am I doing? Boarding two planes to go elsewhere and stay somewhere that hopefully isn’t a brothel.  (I have made that mistake before and it was awkward). 

I suppose there’s something about a balanced trip – some domestic familiarity with someone I have known her entire life – then a plunge into the unknown of two other nearby countries.  I say ‘nearby’.  They looked about two inches away on the map, but the reality is quite different – two flights away – the choice was a 2359 departure or a 0545 departure, so I went for the former, meaning I had three nights with the family.  But I really shouldn’t moan – what an opportunity to visit these places.  I’m in this neck of the metaphorical woods (such as stupid expression – whoever knew a wood to have a neck), so why not. 

Today was so lovely.  I was on baby duty again first thing, cuddling and supervising in that way that only Auntie Helen can.  We had pancakes with blueberries for breakfast, along with copious cups of tea.  My nephew was at gymnastics camp for most of the day, burning off some energy.  My sister and I packaged up the baby into the car and headed for Target, the US equivalent of one of those giant Tesco’s, like the one in Woolwich, where you can buy anything, from a pint of milk, to a really really large plastic box, to, well just about anything.  I bought a tankini, which is like a very small tank.  I also bought a load of earrings, which my sister and I divided up according to our styles (of lack thereof – me, not her).  We went for coffee and the baby had a Peter Rabbit strawberry snack thing, most of which ended up on the high chair, in her bib, and on the floor, but she was happy – I’m still haunted by the whole Peter Rabbit film experience on the way out.

Back at the ranch, we napped and drank tea, then collected my nephew from his camp (which is a day camp rather than a camp camp).  On the way back we stopped at a quirky international food-and-lots-of-other-things store; my sister bought some actual tea, (which had a stark health warning displayed over it, ominously suggesting that I am doomed by my tea consumption); a crafty sales assistant gave my nephew a plastic grabbing tool, which he persuaded my sister to purchase; he then proceeded to grab everything in sight in the car on the way home, from stray packaging, to the baby, but she giggled along and even clapped.

I then found myself bouncing on the trampoline with my nephew, playing ‘catch me if you can’, whereby one has to bounce around to try to tap the other person; the rules change variously as nephew periodically introduces new rules or changes previous rules, and it can get confusing.  His energy is boundless – mine is not - ‘Why can’t you bounce more Auntie Helen?’ – ‘Because I am seven times your age and I don’t do any exercise!’ – I did some exercise once and it didn’t work out.

Brother-in-law returned from work and we enjoyed our final meal together in the garden, eagerly joined by #DogFriend2; it was very warm – even the lizard had submerged himself in his pool to stay cool, and he's a lizard.  

I packed my bag and my sister drove me to the airport.  The children came too, although the baby screamed her apocalyptic scream much of the way, so I clambered into the back and eventually soothed her.  The freeway (motorway to you and me) was fine, but as soon as we hit the approach road, it was gridlock.  About 3 million cars converged and edged inch-by-inch to the airport.  Once we eventually got there, both children were snoring – my nephew looked like a basking terrapin with his mouth wide open and head tilted upwards.  The baby sharply inhaled as though she was still screaming apocalyptically in her sleep.  Babies eh - I should know, I used to be one.

There was a man shouting ‘no parking, drop off only’; we duly obliged, as agreed.  In seconds, I had leapt out of the car, hugged my sister, then they were gone.  I watched them pull away and disappear back into the everlasting stream of vehicles.  I had little tears thinking about what a lovely and precious time I had had.  The baby is days away from taking her first steps.  She crawls at top speed and pulls herself up, looks nervously around, then has second thoughts and lowers herself down.  She can climb a flight of stairs in no time at all, which is very disconcerting.

I wandered into the airport to start part 2 of this journey.  It felt odd to sudden be alone, surrounded by clueless holidaymakers and weary travellers, rather than squawking children.  Odd and a bit lonely.  But moments lady, a nice lady had helped me check-in after the angry machine rejected me, and I was very soon in a baggage drop-off queue, being complimented on my ‘fabulous’ accent by two holidaymakers from Santa Barbara who have five grandchildren.  Two people have said that I have a fabulous accent, so it must be true. 

Since starting this blogpost I have now made it to Houston, Texas.  I’m gently confused as to what time it is – I seem to have gone forward two hours, but then after the next flight I’m going back another hour, which is odd as the location is further east – who decides on these things? I’ve no idea.

The flight was uneventful, until a pilot came and sat in the seat next to me.  ‘Shouldn’t you be flying the plane?’ I asked him.  He had a Pilots’ Association lanyard and everything, so he was definitely a pilot.  He looked like a pilot too – not a pirate, they’re different.  He said that somebody else was flying the plane and he didn’t laugh one tiny bit - the next 2 hours weren’t awkward at all.  I put a blanket over my head and snuggled up to my tray table, as much as one can snuggle up to a piece of rigid plastic. 

Methinks it must be Tuesday now, but I can’t be sure – I know that it traditionally comes after Monday.  I often think it would be more fun if the days of the week were chosen at random each weekend – there could be some sort of national draw on a Sunday to determine the order for the week – just a thought.

I now have a couple more hours to fly, then I will be in my penultimate destination for a couple of nights.  It will certainly be different to where I have been and hopefully a chance to read, write, and just to be really. 

I’m going to find the gate then curl up before boarding the penultimate flight of this adventure.  I’ve been sitting here at Houston Airport watching the world go by – honestly, what did the world do before the pull-a-long case was invented? At least airport-goers look a bit happier with their pull-a-long cases than their commuting counterparts on the London Underground – I once wrote a poem about London commuters called ‘Pull-a-long cases and miserable faces’.  Personally, I am not a fan of pull-a-long cases as they are a trip hazard.  People have died.

There are also a disproportionate number of people walking past wearing neck pillows – I have a neck pillow stored in a pouch in my travel jacket.  It was unfortunate that I packed the travel jacket in my checked baggage – I didn’t think I could really ask the flight staff if I could fetch my neck pillow from my bag, although maybe they would have gone and retrieved it.  Who knows.

Alexa and other animals

Well, friends, it appears that at least 3 people are reading this, so thank you for joining in with my adventure.

I write whilst sipping a cool glass of Chardonnay, listening to a Michael Jackson mash-up, courtesy of my new friend Alexa.  She's amazing.  I just asked her to turn on the outside lights; she did.  I asked her to turn down the volume - she obliged.  She seems to follow instructions, without questioning or arguing; a bit like a friendly dog.  I have officially met #DogFriend2, my sister's dog, who is more like a human, except that he doesn't talk.  He looks at me with the same tender eyes as the original #DogFriend; he rolls over and likes it when his tummy is tickled; he licked my feet earlier.  #DogFriend2 is an Australian Shepherd - streuth.  

Speaking of animals, I can't stop thinking about the Peter Rabbit film I watched on the flight over.  I am so confused - I have my suspicions that it is not entirely in line with the Beatrix Potter version.  I asked my sister, who confirmed that in the book, there is no bit with an epipen; no nephew and certainly no nephew who works in Harrods; no explosives involved in blowing up the rabbits' habitat; no tree which subsequently falls onto that woman's house.  To be fair, I was watching it in German, so anything could have happened really - there was definitely something about a rabbit.  I'm just not sure what Beatrix Potter would have made of it all.  And there is nothing funny about anaphylaxis - I've met her and she's no fun at all. 

The day began in the morning, as it often does, but very early in the morning - 5am.  My baby niece was crying her tiny head off, and this favourite (well, only) auntie offered to take charge. This was amongst my worst ideas ever and believe me, there is an exceptionally long list.  I started writing a blogpost in my head, called 'Risk Assessing the Baby', but the ideas did not get too far as I couldn't take my eyes off her for a second - what if she crawls athletically into a wall? What if she swallows a part of a toy? What if she hits her head? What if, what if, what if.... I'm not a parent, but I am the product of two, plus I deal with 200 on a weekly basis and spend a lot of time writing risk assessments.  I take my metaphorical hat off to any of you who parent - I don't know how you do it - I struggled with the lizard.  Have I mentioned the lizard? He's resident here in house, in his very own cage.  He's just like one of those Beanie Baby lizards, with beading on top, except that he is alive and can move and poke his tongue out, in a way that beaded Beanie Baby lizards cannot.  He can also bite, my brother-in-law informed me, shortly after I had been stroking his beaded self (the lizard, not the brother-in-law).    

Brunch o'clock and we journeyed to the town of San Juan Capistrano to a delightful Mexican place full of delightful Mexicans.  I enjoyed a Ranchero pancake accompanied by sumptuous Californian fruit.  

I still can't quite believe that I am actually on the other side of the world.  Parts of this part of the world resemble a film set - any second, somebody is going to emerge from the 'little house on the prairie' style coffee shop and say 'cut', then actual real-life will resume and all will become clear.  But no, I am actually here, almost as far geographically as one can get - 11 hours away, or 22 hours if you take the unfortunate but oddly satisfying route which I took.  I saw a real cowboy today - a man with a cowboy hat, riding a horse - I must actually be here.

Afternoon came and we headed back to town, where a delightful coffee shop furnished us with caffeine-fuelled refreshment and an almond croissant.  We walked through a quirky butterfly park, ashamed at the number of types of butterfly we could actually list.  We came across an open-air concert in a sun-drenched park, where a band generated familiar music, introduced by a different person each time.  I had tears in my eyes as my sister and nephew danced to the music, then my sister and brother-in-law danced together - the audience applauded them more than the music givers.

I bought a thimble in a gift shop - a cute wooden thimble with 'San Juan Capistrano' etched onto it.  I'm not sure anyone has ever bought a thimble there before as the seller didn't know how much they were.  Actually, there's a freaky Peter Rabbit link here - when I was 7 we visited Beatrix Potter's house in the Lake District.  I wanted to buy a souvenir in the gift shop.  Mum suggested I purchase a thimble, and suggested that I might like to start a collection.  As if, I thought.  I now have more than 400 thimbles which document my life since that visit.  I made it my ambition to buy one from every country in the world and was perplexed when I realised that they don't sell them in every country in the world - Burkina Faso for example, has no thimbles - I went there and checked.  It was philately that triggered my interest in the world.  Age 9, I once came across a stamp from a country called Burkina Faso - I had never heard of it but found it on a map and decided that one day I would go there.  Ten years later, I did, to Ouagadougou.  I even sent myself a postcard.  But there were no thimbles.

Back at the ranch, I got to know Alexa better - she's a legend - she plays music, she turns on the lights.  Apart from not having any feelings or emotions, she's just like a human.  Well, most humans.  My sister and I took #DogFriend2 out for a walk around the area - it's all looks very American but I suppose that's not entirely surprising.

A lady on the train yesterday told me that my accent was 'fabulous' - I concurred, but wondered which accent she meant - it comes quite naturally to speak as I do (innit fam!)

The children are now sleeping and I will soon be heading to bed.  It's my last day here tomorrow, then I am off on part 2 of this epic adventure.  Stay with me - it's going to be fun!

#TrolleyBusFriends

I last rode a bicycle in 1998, when I cycled 60 miles with my patrol to fundraise for our trip to the World Scout Jamboree in Chile in 1998.  I owe a lot to that trip - (the trip to Chile, rather than the 60 mile cycle ride) - in that I didn't say a whole lot beforehand, but haven't really stopped talking since.

When my sister suggested that we 'cycle and dog-blade to brunch', I was a little apprehensive.  I keep receiving e-mails about 'unusual activity' and this seemed to fit with that.  

I was presented with a hat which swiftly wrecked my freshly-coiffured hair, but better that than fall off and end up with a cactus embedded in one's head.  I'm not sure if my travel insurance policy (purchased from Aviva through easyfundraising, generating £7.50 for 1st Chislehurst Guides - have I mentioned this?!) covers cycling when one hasn't for 20 years.  But the old saying about riding a bike is true - one doesn't forget.  Once I'd got the balancing thing I was ok.  My nephew sped ahead on his trusty bike - he has a stegosaurus helmet with spikes for extra protection.  My tiny niece sat snugly in a chair on the front of my sister's bike.  As for dog-blading? A dog is required and thankfully the family dog was available - he duly ran along on the lead, confidently held by my brother-in-law who roller-bladed smoothly along.  I certainly couldn't have roller-bladed, so was gently relieved when presented with a bicycle.

The terrain was entirely flat, and a purpose-built cycle track led us beautifully through the sun-drenched edge of the Californian desert, punctuated by cacti and a huge stable full of horses.  The heat is remarkable - almost as hot as Journey Camp at Cudham last weekend, but not quite.

My confidence on the bike grew and I changed gears at least twice.  Confidence in commanding a vehicle is key.  When I started to learn to drive, I had four lessons then hit a house - it just came at me.  Note to self - do not wedge parents' Mondeo into neighbours' house - you will not be asked to babysit there again.

We arrived at Bravo's Fresh California and enjoyed a divine brunch of pancakes filled with blueberries, sausages, eggs and coffee.  The egg terminology here is baffling - at home it's 'boiled', 'fried', 'poached'; here it's 'sunny side up' or 'over-easy'; I didn't know what either meant, so went for 'over-easy' which appears similar to 'fried'.  We hydrated ourselves and the dog, then headed home.  ("Rehydrate, doo doo, do do do-do" - to anyone who was at the Closing Ceremony of Journey Camp).

We variously cycled and dog-bladed home, then headed to the beach! We drove to a large parking lot by a shopping centre, then boarded a trolley bus which took us all the way to the beach! It was packed with happy people, both locals and holidaymakers, some cooking themselves in the sun, others paddling, swimming, surfing.  We paddled, cuddled the baby, sat and watched the waves crashing on the beach.  Ice-cream o'clock and we headed to the legendary South Swell Hand Dipped Ice Cream where we enjoyed frozen banana dipped in chocolate and an abundance of colourful sprinkles.

We trolley-bussed back - #TrolleyBusFriends smiled at me as I had charge of the baby in a green papoose.  Papoose - what a great word - and not used often enough.  I shall endeavour to start using it more often.  "Now, where's my papoose?"

Sushi was on the menu for dinner, and we headed to Totoya restaurant where my brother-in-law gave an informative lesson on all the types of sushi available - I made sushi on the Japanese Cultural Exchange in Japan in 2003, but have not had any since.  Today was a day of doing things I haven't done for years, and my sister and I duly munched our way through a Dragon Roll, a Crunch Roll and a series of other pieces of sushi, plus copious glasses of water, which were refilled about every four seconds by our trusty waiter.

Sleep o'clock.  Thanks for reading - hope you are enjoying it?!

Humanoid nurse rabbits and other animals

I left you just as I was en route to buy a present for my niece.  Well, I failed on that front – I couldn’t find anything in the limited selection of shops at Heathrow which an 11-month old would not a) try to eat or b) be confused by.  So I didn’t buy her anything.  I didn’t think too much about this until 13 hours later when I finally made it to the front of the immigration queue:

“Why are you here Mam?”

“To visit my sister.”

“Did you bring any presents?”

“Yes – a copy of Homes and Garden magazine, a Lego toy, and a Battenberg.”

“That’s all you brought?”

Don’t you start! I thought to myself.  Of course, that thought remained in my brain and I did not let it reach my mouth. 

It’s no wonder I couldn’t check in online with Austrian Airlines – it wasn’t an Austrian Airlines flight! Methinks when one books through Expedia, (have I mentioned that doing so generates a donation through easyfundraising?), they pull an airline out of a hat and tell you that you are flying with them, just for fun.

When I checked in – again, via a personality-devoid machine, it asked me if I wanted to upgrade and have a bed, for just $1000 – now let me see…. Of course not! How ridiculous.  I was in seat 17B, not a window seat as I hoped, but it didn’t matter. 

A 20-something male to my left watched films which ‘may contain profanities’; I watched Paddington 2, then Peter Rabbit.  I also read half a book (the first half) and started drafting fundraising letters for next year’s major international project.  I also slept quite a lot.  My dreams got a bit confusing – what with two films about the personification of animals,reading The Number One Ladies Detective Agency and moving each time the 20-something male needed the ‘bathroom’ (which was rather too many if you ask me – he might consider making a doctor’s appointment) – I woke up at least twice and couldn’t fathom where I was.

It was rabbit central today.  When I was buying the Lego, I came across the Sylvanian Families section.  I played with these as a child and always remember Felicity the nurse rabbit who ran the Cottage Hospital.  I will forever envisage Cottage Hospitals being run by humanoid nurse rabbits.  I remember first hearing of Tonbridge Cottage Hospital, back when I worked for the NHS in another life, and imagining it being staffed entirely by humanoid nurse rabbits like Felicity.

The association of certain Sylvanian Families creature names does not leave you – anyone called Arabella is in my head, Arabella Treefellow, the owl; anyone called Walter is the daddy frog (Walter Bullrush); Abigail can only be a hedgehog (Abigail Bramble).   

It was a United Airlines flight and all was ok, although I’m not sure the pilot took the quickest route – we seemed to fly over Luton, then Manchester – surely the quickest way between two places is in a straight line? Then the journey might be 5 hours instead of 11? Just a thought.  But you know what they say – if God had wanted us to fly, he would have built the airports closer to where the people live. 

I had fun eavesdropping on some academics in front of me –

‘I’m a Professor of < DELETED UNDER GDPR >’

‘Oh really? Where are you based?

‘Bath Spa’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Bath’

Man, it was deep.

Fast forward eleven hours and post-immigration I found myself awaiting the FlyAway bus to Union Station.  I made friends with a young student who is doing a similar circuit to me, but over five weeks rather than five days.  The bus was blissfully air-conditioned and shuttled us unerringly to Union Station, where I went to purchase a train ticket for the final leg of the journey.  The machine helpfully told me ‘once purchased, your Metrolink ticket is only valid for 3 hours.  There is not another train in the next 3 hours – would you like to proceed?’ Yes! Of course I shall purchase a ticket which cannot be used – what a sensible move that would be?! 

I located a person wearing a luminous jacket.  I always trust a person in a luminous jacket – I often wear a luminous jacket and have a box of them in the car, just in case.  The box is labelled ‘reflective jackets’ – they do a lot of thinking, you know.   If you stand by the roadside wearing a luminous jacket and point a hairdryer at passing cars, it really slows the traffic down.  Unfortunately the luminous lady at Union Station let me down as she didn’t know about the Amtrak train which I was after in the absence of a Metrolink train, but she was very friendly. 

An unexplained train delay meant that twenty-two hours after leaving Plumstead, I am still travelling and have still not arrived – hopefully within 15 minutes I shall actually be with my sister! I’m going to sign out there and try to upload - there is Amtrak WiFi which doesn’t seem to be working; there’s an alternative, but I’m not sure how Tomas would feel about me connecting to his iPhone.  I can’t wait to have a sleep in a proper bed, rather than curled up on a meal tray table.