Chiapas: hairy skirts, pipe-toting terrorists and dogs in bandanas

It is all too easy when describing a country to fall into that old cliché ‘a country of great contrasts’ but, when it comes to Mexico, it surely is impossible to avoid.

We’ve been in this huge country for a month now and yet we are still frequently surprised at the variety it has to offer.


Most noticeable has been the constantly changing kaleidoscope of landscapes we have passed through - from sparse deserts to huge mountain ranges, thick forests to sprawling cities - and their associated different climates.

We’ve taken it all, sweating in the parched north, shivering in thin mountain air, baking on the beaches.

All that is, except rain. It never seems to rain in this dry, dry, country.

Our backpacks are groaning with the sizeable wardrobes required to suit these varying conditions, our hat collection expands inexorably as we delve into the local millinery delights.

And still it continues to change, as we head further and further south, leaving the beaches of Oaxaca for the mountains of Chiapas.

Twelve hours on a tarmac ribbon separates them yet, once more, we stepped from one world into another.

Yesterday afternoon we finally tore ourselves away from our beachside idyll, swinging out of Mazunte in a rattling old camionera heading for the inland town of Pochutla, and our bus on to Chiapas.

These converted pick-ups bomb along the dusty roads, a hail-and-ride service ferrying villagers and tourists alike between tiny coastal communities for the price of a few pesos.

Hopping into the back you park yourself on a narrow wooden bench, sat between hawkers heading home and sacks of oranges bound for the market.

The flimsy canvas roof flaps wildly in the breeze as the road weaves up and down little hills, the camionera frequently stopping for passengers or veering wildly off onto a bumpy little dirt track, where neatly-pressed children are dropped off at a church and plump chickens peck in the dust beneath stubby banana trees.

As the road bent north for Pochutla and the camionera lurched over a hilltop we said goodbye to the sunkissed sands upon which we had lounged, the patrolling pelicans and the slow pattering of flip flops, the pounding surf and the strange goose which paid a daily visit to the sands, honking indignantly at the sunbathers as if they were invading conquistadors.

We bade farewell, too, to the Pacific Ocean, the last time we will see this sporadic companion of the last two months.

We have swum in its waters in the east and the west, and indeed have taken a dip right in the middle, albeit in the Hugo’s pool, which drew its waters from the briny aqua through which it passed.

The next sea will be the Caribbean, when we visit Belize; perhaps it’s just the beach but it felt to me like we’ve had a taster of what is to come: bougainvilleas, ‘coco loco’ (’crazy coconut’) cocktails, the laid back pace of life and reggae booming out of palm-thatched shacks.

We won’t find out for sure for a few weeks yet, I reminded myself as we pulled into Pochutla and boarded a night bus for Chiapas, for we were now heading for the mountains.

It was a long night, an arduous journey, as the road rose and rose and chubby fellow passengers serenaded us with nocturnal calls blasting out through their cavernous nasal passages.

In the dark outside we could see little of the famed beauty of the mountain scenery through which we were weaving, only the odd provincial bus station or lonesome army checkpoint, where jeeps idled and jumpy-looking recruits fingered large automatic weapons.

We recalled the advice of our guidebook: try and avoid night buses in Mexico, particularly in this part of the world, for Chiapas is the home of the Zapatistas.

As dawn broke and I scrapped the crud of a disturbed night’s sleep from corner of my eyes, our destination hove into view: San Cristobal de Las Casas.

Soon we were zipping along the narrow empty streets, through inextricably-wound down windows our taxi blasting out salsa and sucking in fresh mountain air.

Too fresh for us - the thermometer now barely creeping up to single figures having merrily hovered in the mid 30s back down on the coast.

The Chiapas highlands peered through the mist, mountain peeks soaring above the undulating streets. Low grey clouds blocked out the sun and seemed to press down on the low buildings, squashing them into the ground, resentful of their bright liveries.

Only the blinged-up churches dared to rise above a single storey, their exteriors coated in pastel blues and yellows, a wigwam of plastic flags fluttering over their yards.

Boiling on the beach to freezing in the mountains. Sea level to 6500 feet. All within half a day’s travel.

We feel we’re entering new lands, new zones of influence where the US is far over the horizon and Guatemala - and central America - is hoving into view.

We can see this in the changing ethnic makeup of the people amongst whom we walk.

The inhabitants here are markedly difficult from those farther north; smaller and slighter, their faces darker, their appearances wilder and stranger.

These ‘Indigenous people’, descendents of the Maya, are now greater in number, comprising some 40% of Chiapas’ population, their numbers almost equal to those of the majority mestizo (mixed European / Indian ancestry).

They come in a bewildering range of ethnic groups; many don’t even speak Spanish, even more still wear their traditional costumes.

Tzotzil women scuttle about in black, hairy, woollen skirts and multicoloured shawls, heaving children and wares on their backs in brightly-coloured bundles as they hawk heavy strings of beads to the multitude of Goretexed westerners.

Their menfolk trot alongside them, sporting cream, sleeveless jackets made of wool and dusty black cowboy hats. Some seem to dispense with trousers altogether, preferring instead a rather short type of woollen tunic tied at the waist and hanging several airy inches above the knees.

I tower above these strange people, shivering under four layers of Karrimor and nylon, trying to avoid our icebox of a room, a chilly wendy house set amongst the gardens of a hostel, where hummingbirds hover as bundled-up staff tinker with malfunctioning gas heaters.

In an effort to warm ourselves up we go for a hot chocolate in the town’s traditional Spanish plaza, taking in the ornate iron bandstand and the neatly kept gardens, admiring the dirty yellow walls of the Cathedral and the smart wide colonial-era municipal buildings.

It was hard to imagine what the scene must have been like here on 1st January 1994, the day the Zapatistas came to town.

As Mexico celebrated the day that the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) came into effect, these guerrillas shook the nation, a rag-tag army of balaclavas and bandoliers army which emerged out of the Lacandon jungle and temporarily assuming control of San Cristobal and other towns.

Also known by the catchy acronym of the EZLN (Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional), they draw their inspiration from famous 18th century revolutionary Emiliano Zapatista and his rallying cry ¡Tierra y Libertad! - Land and Liberty!.

As the state with the largest proportion of indigenous people, is also the poorest and life many seems to have improved little for them, in comparison with their mestizo compatriots, ever since the first conquistadore showed his pointy beard in these parts over 500 years ago.

It’s hardly surprisingly, then, that after all this time, some of the impoverished and disenfranchised indigenous peoples of Chiapas might turn to more drastic measures in order to improve their lot.

Whilst the violence might have abated somewhat the sentiments remain.

The signs of this are everywhere: graffiti on walls; impressive EZLN murals in cafes and Zapatista merchandise on sale in shops and markets.

Revolucion is, as ever, a nice little earner and you can leave San Cristobal with a mountain of Zapatista memorabilia, from balaclava-clad dolls and Zapatista t-shirts on sale to postcards and hand-woven cushion covers.

With the latter, the revolutionary pin-up of choice is, of course, the enigmatic figure of ‘Subcommandante Marcos’, one of the leaders of the EZLN and very much the modern revolutionary.

The secret of his success surely lies not in his deeds so much as his image.

In the battle for hearts and minds Marcos would have the Pentagon drooling, a savvy spin-doctor who has carefully crafted his image so that he has gained an almost mystical status, attracting a level of adoration amongst some which is almost as intense in its adoration as that of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

Marcos’s image is striking and enticing: a romantic revolutionary, a rebel with a cause. Like Batman, another hero of the people, his identity is unknown, hidden behind his ever-present balaclava. Clad in olive combat fatigues he tops this off with the ultimate in revolutionary accessories: a pipe.

Forget Che and his beret, Fidel and his cigar, Marcos has a pipe . And not only this but he sports it through his balaclava.

I make a mental note to refer his balaclava and briar antics to The Chap magazine. whilst ascending the slippery cobbles back to our hostel.

Another dog siddles by with a bandana tied round its neck and again I ponder whether the townspeople do this to their pooches out of fashion or to distinguish their pet from the many wandering strays.

My thoughts are cut short though when a strange liquid hits my cheek. Then another. And another.

What is this strange watery thing falling from the sky.

It cannot be, it is…rain!

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Pacific crossing - Ship’s log

In the true spirit of a voyage, and to give you a proper flavour of our time on the Pacific, here are selected extracts from the Ship’s log, courtesy of Able Seaman Fewins.


Tuesday, 25th November, Day One, Yantian

Hong Kong’s International Container Terminal. It was into this strange, automated new world that we were introduced a few hours ago, smoothly whisked through the passport check (when did Heathrow ever take a mere five minutes from entrance to boarding?) and, before we know it, face-to-face with our transport for America: the CMA CGM Hugo - our home for the next 15 days.

Before we knew it we had climbed up the long, vertiginous gangplank, gasping for breath under our large packs, and established ourselves in our new quarters.

‘Cabin’ is rather a modest term for the palatial surroundings in which we find ourselves. Since we are the only passengers these two budget travellers have surely hit the accommodation jackpot:
a large living room, with sofa and all mod cons (TV, DVD and hifi), comfortable bedroom and en-suite bathroom. It’s fresh, light, airy, oh and did I mention that we have our own balcony outside? With commanding views of the starboard side of the vessel?

Please excuse the bragging but, after five months living out of a backpack in cheap and grotty hotel rooms this place is maritime heaven.

A young German officer, Sebastien, shows us the various facilities in the main living area of the vessel before his older colleague, a pale-faced Pole called ‘Chief’ shows us the business end of the boat - the cargo holds.

It ‘s a big tub, taking a good time to walk from end to end.

Passengers on board, the officers could go back to the main part of their work - loading the 6000 or so containers that this ship will be carrying across the Pacific. At two a minute this will take some time.

We stretch out on sundowners and behold the impressive scene in front of us - a massive port at full tilt. We marvel at the awesome scale of the machines, the logistical excellence of the companies , the industry of the workers…and the marksmanship of a crane operator as he nips out of his vertiginous cabin to take a leak over the side.

The sun starts to set and two tug boats run up alongside us; mooring ropes are cast off and the little vessels begin to pull and push us, ebullient little bulldogs, set to their task. With great dexterity (and a little technological help) the crew and harbour pilot swing our ship around in one massive U-turn within the confined waters of the harbour.

We point out to sea and glide out under an unfinished suspension bridge, the two ends hanging like lovers split apart by the gulf on which we sail. They won’t have to wait long to be finally united, judging by the frenetic activity echoing down to us in the dark below.

To port we wave farewell to the bright lights of Hong Kong Island and Kowloon, flashing in the distance, where the ‘Symphony of Lights’ is underway. Beyond traffic and tower blocks, glistening in the water, and into the dark embrace of the night.

As we leave the orange glow of the city behind the stars begin to come out, and Asia starts to fade away.


Wednesday 26th November, Day Two, just off Shantou

A troubled night’s sleep. I felt as if I were in a pitch-dark cage, secured on four pivots which a malicious machine manipulated in term all night long.

Turning out for breakfast at eight sharp, we guzzled caffeine and pondered how on earth we were meant to sleep on this bucking beast of a boat.

Thankfully we had stopped once more - Yantian port - a chance to cop a few z’s.

Another massive cargo operation, during which we acquainted ourselves with the ship’s DVDs. Made in China and all knocked off of course, together they form a library that would have Barry Norman drooling. We are not going to be bored on this tub…

We finally set sail and headed up through the Straits of Taiwan, leaving the tropics behind. A large warship hove into view to starboard, a Chinese vessel patrolling troubled waters between China and what she regards as a ‘renegade’ province.

The crew busy themselves checking for stowaways, a real concern as Chinese still regularly attempt to stow aboard vessels, desperately seeking a better life in the USA. The Captain, deadly serious about this task, gives instances from they past where other ships have been surreptitiously boarded and stowaways hidden inside containers.

With luck they have enough food and drink to last two weeks, perhaps even a rudimentary toilet. Either way, it’s a perilous …

It’s gets me thinking about what is inside all those massive containers. They are sealed and then shipped, long before they reach the Hugo, clothes, food, cars, guns, bananas, whatever we don’t know.

Neither do the crew, nor the officers. Only the Captain and Chief Mate have some idea of what might be in some of them - those that are deemed ‘hazardous’, or perishables, requiring power to cool them during the voyage.

I gaze out to sea from the landing outside. Blue, blue, blue. As far as the eye can see. Get used to it, shipmate.


Thursday 27th November, Day Three, north of Taipei

Morning rises are painfully early, particularly on the many days when the clocks are changed.
This morning was the first of no less than eight of these during the course of our 15 day voyage. That’s the equivalent of a good night’s sleep!

We’ll then gain 24 hours - a whole day - when we cross the International Date Line, though when I tried to work out what happens after that I got confused and gave up.

The Hugo is passing south of Japan now, heading due East. The sea has turned the same blue as we saw back in the Land of the Rising Sun, a deep, brilliant blue which makes you want to dive in. I’m calling it ‘Japanese indigo’.

To the north is the Okinawa, a favourite holiday destination for the Japanese, particularly for honeymooners. It sounds wonderful - lush tropical beaches, more relaxed than the mainland.
We learn now that this is as close to Japan that we’ll now get, for our route has been changed, the usual route abandoned due to a storm raging across the waters further north.

This original route headed north, through places we’d been in back in August, crossing the Sea of Japan and threading between Honshu and Hokkaido. The route heads up past the Kamchatka peninsula, beyond the Aleutians into the Bering Sea before finally looping back south, shadowing the West coast of the US all the way to LA.

It looks barmy on the map but if you cut up a globe and flattened it out you’d find it was a thousand miles shorter than our present course. But it’s not for us, concerns about the extra fuel and time it will take are well outweighed by the need to avoid bad weather.

This has its advantages for us of us: we came prepared for a chilly journey; instead we’ll be lingering in the tropics that bit longer. Pass the Nivea, darling…

Fried Chicken Liver for dinner - this was too much, particularly in these conditions. Enough of this German stodge! Give us some Filopino! We had discovered that the crew wisely eschewed such teutonic culinary delights and enjoyed some of Joyson, the chef’s good ol’ home cooking.

So a delicious chicken casserole and rice it was, fragrantly and subtley flavoured with ginger, lemon and chilli.

I don’t think the Captain appreciated this treachery from his European compatriots.


Friday 28th November, Day Four, well past Okinawa

Another hour forward, another dazed breakfast where I am woken from my slumbers only by the sound of the Captain upbraiding the Steward.

He’d committed the heinous crime of straying a couple of inches from his post at the door of the pantry. “Stand where I can zee yooo!”, the Steward caught a full Baltic blast from the severe skipper.

Humiliated and shocked, poor Roy stood rooted to his spot for the rest of the day, a wan smile on his face like a dog which had just been thrashed.

We pass south of Osaka - several hundred miles south - city of Octopus balls and the only grime to be found in Japan.

The swell has picked up. No ships on the radar screen now. We’re venturing into the unknown.

The quiet afternoon is punctured by a screeching alarm - fire alarm practice.

Lara and I squeeze along the gangways, in bulky lifevests, lugging bags containing heavy plastic immersion suits (surely they can come up with a less doom-laden name than this?). We finally find the right deck, where the crew, laughing at us, huddles round a compact little orange lifeboat.

We’re the last to arrive - they were about to send a search party.

At dinner the steward seems to have received somewhat from his earlier bollocking: when pudding arrives he offers dietary advice to Lara - “Yes it’s best you don’t eat the ice cream - you need to stay sexy.” Her face was a picture.


Saturday 29th November, Day Five, South of the Bonin Islands

To the bridge for my morning visit, just to check we are heading the right way of course.

I’ve become fascinated with this living, breathing seamonster upon which we have hitched a ride. I could almost be one of the German officers, visiting the bridge at exactly the same time each day to note our bearing, find our position and add another inch to the long black line snaking across my map.

I badger whoever’s on watch with questions and requests, aching to play with the impressive array of machines. I eye up the radar, the bow thruster, the sonar, the radio, and most of all that funny little lever that you see in all boat movies that says ’Full steam ahead'.

Casting my eye over the charts I notice we passed some islands called the Bonin Islands. I’ve never heard of them but they fascinate me nonetheless. Any rock, any deep, seems to have a significance on the great light blue void taking up my map. The last scraps of land for quite some time.

Back amongst the living, we’re struggling to adopt to one aspect of our new surroundings: the food. After the varied and subtle culinary delights of Asia we now face European fare of a decidedly different nature. Germano-centric food which is heavy on protein and light on …. Stodgy grub to sustain the hard-pressed sailor. .

It’s beef for all three meals today, served up ‘raw’ for breakfast, in the form of soup, delicately set off with a fried egg on top. “A traditional Jarman meeeeel”, the Chief Engineer proudly explains to us “Our Filopino cook has to learn haw to coooook ittt’. There follows stroganoff for lunch, and something called ‘Texas Flintoff’ for dinner.

Local specialities aside, accustomed as we are to a diet of noodles and fresh fruit, chillis and lemongrass it plays havoc with our digestive tracts.

The Chief kindly takes us on another tour - a chance to forget our own innards and explore those of the ship.

We descend below decks, into a maze of cream-painted metal corridors and black and yellow painted hazard chevrons. In large, echoing metal chambers we take in impressive machinery, whirring, grinding and perforating our eardrums. Each connected room has its own specific purpose: rudder steering, firefighting, equipment storage and (my favourite) bow-thrusting.

Chief leaves us at the bow, for a ‘Titanic’ moment. It’s his favourite place on the boat - the only place where peace reigns and your at one with the natural world.

We lean against the rails and stare into the water. The ocean’s a deep blue, the spray the colour of duck-eggs. I shout with delight: “Look, flying fish!”. The small creatures pop up out of nowhere and fly - yes they really do - up into the air, skimming above the waves.

Battered by the breeze, we retreat to our deck and watch the sun sink into the sea. As it descends through a small cloud, shafts of light spill out round the side and down onto the water, blazing a path through the waves. Our own private sunset.


Sunday 30th November, Day Six, A long way from anywhere

Being at the mercy of the elements our voyage is dominated by talk of the weather. It’s the first thing we do in the morning, shaking the sleep from our heads and drawing back the curtains.

Today it’s raining outside, visibility is low. The sea is much darker, the waves seem longer, stronger, more threatening. There’s a mist in the air, and the temperature has increased, muggy and close.

The latest faxed weather forecast does not make for good reading. The North Pacific does not look pretty - a whole jigsaw of isobars crowded, great swirls tearing round.

The report brings news of swells of seven metre. Yes, seven metres. Captain wisely decides to avoid this and make a new bearing south, 96 degrees. Our new course will soon head along Lat 21 degrees East, rather than 26 degrees - back south over the Tropic of Cancer.

We will no longer pass Midway, but instead thread our way through the islands of Hawaii. Much excitement amongst passengers and crew until we realise that we wont be dropping anchor there. Can we spot grass-skirted dancing girls through our binoculours?

Basketball in the pm at the stern of the boat, a basket set up and court marked out, rope nets rigged up to stop the ball going overboard. This gangly Englishman makes a right fool of myself - hammered by a gang of tubby 5ft filopinos

Sliver of a moon out tonight, the stars all in attendance. Venus is the largest I have ever seen her.

Finally movement down below - attention all shipping.


Monday 1st December, Day Seven, Still a long way from anywhere

A beautiful sunny morning. The temperature has crept up as the latitude has dropped. It’s now humid on board and so hot in the sun that even Lara had to retreat from her sunlounger.

It’s hard to grasp that today is actually the first of December. Lara’s made us our very own WISM advent calendar to get us more into the Christmas mood.

We are now covering roughly 550 miles a day - that’s 25 miles an hour to us landlubbers. A full 24 hour’s voyage renders another inch and a half of blue on the map. There’s an awful lot of blue ahead of us.

Late in the afternoon as I lay on the sunlounger, buried in my notebook I heard a cry which made me jump so high I almost fell overboard. Looking above me I saw Sebastien, the 4th mate, and Chief, waving excitedly at me and pointing to starboard.

I turned my head in that direction and immediately saw a fin and a plume of white spray: a whale! I rushed excitedly into our room, scattering books all over the floor and dragging Lara out of the shower.

Up on the bridge we were treated to the sight of no less than a school (or pod? a herd?) of whales, making their way past us, heading West.

I counted five separate creatures, clearly identifiable by the plumes of spray their blowholes sent above the sea, along with the odd glint from the setting sun as their great bodies broke the surface.

Our first ever sighting of whales. Magical.

The crew didn’t share our excitement - not a new experience for them, though were a little surprised at seeing whales so far from their usual surroundings in these parts, the great migratory routes along the Western coasts of the US and Mexico, Hawaii and the Aleutian Islands.

So strange to see any creature in so remote a place, thousands of miles from land.

The sun seemed to sense our excitement and put on a magnificent display of its own, competing for our attention and wonder. Sinking fast into the sea it burned the crests of the waves a fiery yellow and lit up the little clouds shuddering low across the sky; dark blue changed to purple, violent then orange, before crimson and gold.

The natural wonders didn’t stop there: later up on the bridge we were treated to clear night skies and the most spectacular collection of stars I have ever seen.

Whole constellations came out to play; distant solar systems visited us, piercingly bright. Like a black lampshade, light seeping through a thousand pinpricks. The Navigator, Cesar, spotted Venus and even Jupiter, clear to the naked eye.

He asked me that question such sights provoke in a million minds: “Do you think there’s life out there?”


Tuesday 2nd December, Day Eight, somewhere along the Tropic of Cancer

Another bright sky, the sea a deep blue, the swell a gentle 1½ foot. The warm wind embraced me like a glove, the sun called us out to play. Lara sweated the morning out on deck whilst I paid my morning visit to the bridge, just to check they were heading in the right direction.

We’re now 2864 miles from Hong Kong, and a long way from dry land. I cast my eyes once more over the well-worn maps lying around, covered in pencilled notes and buried under weather reports.

We passed a rock called Minami Tori-Shima, a hundred miles or so to starboard. The map shows it’s Japanese territory, the last piece of Asia. We head now into a no man’s land, before entering the US sphere and the archipelago of Hawaii.

I find myself consulting these charts at least twice a day, they somehow give me comfort and reassurance. Perhaps it’s because they printed in Taunton and brought to us courtesy of a fellow Englishman, the grandly-titled ‘Rear Admiral R.O. Morris, Hydrographer of the Navy‘.

I’m hooked on these charts and my visits to the bridge, craving information in this empty new world.

They’re covered in strange patterns, code for the navigator. Strange names, full of foreboding and mystery: ’Mapmakers seamounts’; ’Ortelius fracture zone’; ’Ptolemy Basin’.

I’ve never really been aware of what my exact latitude and longitude is before but ask me know and I could reel it off to you to the second. Then again, it’s not really been necessary for a trip to Waitrose.

A rainstorm forces the sunbather back inside, bursting through the …door as the bruised clouds catch up with us astern. The Captain is amazed - travelling up at 50 kph the rains caught up with us from behind before hosing down our decks and stairways. The crew are delighted - no more washing for a while.

A fax came through from the weather folks in San Francisco; we’re riding the edge of one almighty storm. Their map shows isobars bound tight together in the North Pacific, stretching out in concentric circles from almost coast to coast. So glad we changed course…

I’ve just realised we’ve been at sea a week now yet my fears about getting bored are still to materialise; time is not dragging.

On top of this we’ve had no access to news from the outside world for a week. For a Radio Four junkie this could be intolerable yet I’ve barely considered it.

Am I becoming a troglodyte?


Wednesday 3rd December, Day Nine, Middle of nowhere

3400 miles from Yantian. We’re crossing something called the mid-Pacific Seamounts, huge mountains under the water rising up to 5000 metres above the seabed. On land they would rival some serious peaks, drawing visitors from far and wide. Under water they’re anonymous, awaiting names from some intrepid aquatic explorer.

The Hugo is experiencing some of the effects of the huge storm raging to the north, something I was aware of before rising as I rolled around in bed during the night, waking up pressed up tight against the bulwark.

The day brought large swells, some rising up to 4 metres in height. I descend to the deck and gaze in awe at meaty graet monsters, barrelling in and plunging under the Hugo, lifting the leviathan and throwing him up like a leaf. Great fine clouds of spray fly off the crests, covering the deck and coating the handrails in salt.

The constant rolling motion takes a toll on the tub, the bow sustaining some damage, albeit it fairly low-level, from the constant pummelling from the port side. The crew laugh blithely continue as before, hardly noticing their … world and laughing at the landlubbers, staggering along the gangways, grabbing handrails, tables, anything to hold on to.

This tossing and turning takes more of a toll on us - my brain seems to slosh around in my head, making reading difficult, and typing this a challenge; Lara feels downright queasy and lies groaning on the sofa.

Our world is in perpetual motion, constantly changing - one minute the corridor rises up in front of us into a steep incline, the next we’re barrelling down it like kids on toboggans.

It presented a whole new challenge when working out in the gym, the exercise bike rising and falling as if I were touring the Grampians, my view out the porthole one big blue world, restless and …

The Captain takes action, abandoning our straight course and resort to tacking, just like in a sailing boat, only this time done to avoid the worst excesses of the waves and wind rather than harness it.

We sail on two bearings, interchanging between the two, taking our intended course, 96 degrees, almost due East, where the waves hit our port side, sending the boat into a constant and strong rolling motion, before seeking some blessed relief and bearing further south, 110 degrees.

The crew would have us believe that this is for the comfort of their guests but clearly they have a more precious cargo to worry about; the thousands of containers creaking and groaning at their lashings on deck.

Walking along the gangway directly under them can be quite unnerving - it sounds like a Victorian graveyard out there, each container crying out under the intense pressure they bear.
After dark excitement in the Owner’s Cabin mounted as we neared the International Date Line. 180 degrees East - exactly half-way round the world from Greenwich, and from home.

In one rotation of the propeller we would no longer be locating ourselves by how many degrees we were East of the Meridian, but West.

Not only this but all of a sudden we would be 12 hours behind the UK, rather than 12 hours ahead. And we’d gain a day, making us both one whole day older in an instant! From now on our lives will be one day out. Christmas Day on the 24th. New Year’s Eve on the 30th.

Confusing - so much so that Lara has turned a tin of evaporated milk into ‘the sun‘ and a tub of peanuts into ‘the earth‘ upon which she shines her wind-up torch. They sit on the sofa and the table, the map spread out between them.

I struggle to explain the dateline to her - we need her nautically-steeped, mathematically-minded father her. Instead she goes to seek an explanation amongst the maritime tomes on the bridge.

The moment was of course an anticlimax; the bridge didn’t call us as promised - the Captain being in the midst of one of his unhumourous moments - and we unconsciously crossed the Line during a film.

Never mind: from 22.35, from now on every minute we travel we are no longer heading further away from home; we are getting closer.


Wednesday 3rd December, Day Ten, South of Midway Island

No it’s not a typo - it’s Wednesday again, for now that we have crossed the International Date Line, from East to West, have get to relive a whole day of our life again. That makes us a day older than we would be otherwise, and knocks out all dates from now on by one day.

Soon after the Date Line came the island of Midway; though hidden hundreds of miles over the horizon (not that far on the Pacific Ocean scale of things), a large rock which would have remained anonymous if it weren’t for its location and the pivotal battle that took place there in the Second World War, when the US held firm against Japanese assaults. A line in the sea between East and West.

At this point it begins to feel like we have now crossed between these worlds, leaving the East and entering the West. We are creeping slowly into a new sphere of influence, where the US, not Japan holds sway over the seas and remote islands they hide.

It’s not every day you get to cross the International Date Line, nor to relieve a full day. Nor is it every day that you get down on one knee and propose to your girlfriend. It took planning, guile and plenty of courage but I managed it and - somehow - she said yes!

I’ll spare you the soppy guff but suffice it to say the evening was memorable, if only for the reaction of the officers and crew. The former seemed unmoved, perhaps disinterested; the latter were far more enthusiastic.

There followed an enjoyable celebration Fillopino-style, where Joyson, the Cook, cracked open a bottle of brandy and sang us soppy (and unrecognisable) love songs on his beloved karaoke machine. The entertainment when he stopped, for an Oiler, Villar, proudly produced his guitar and got stuck into a few of his favourite numbers.

Over the excited hubbab of a boisterous game of mahjong and through the clouds of Chinese cigarette smoke, an acoustic ‘Careless Whisper’ went down a storm, followed by Robbie Williams and a rousing Beatles number.

They may be on the same boat but there is an ocean of difference between the Germans and Filipinos.


Thursday 4th December, Day Eleven, West of Hawaii

The first solid assurance that we are now very much back in the West: up over the horizon the charts show a long, strung-out chain of atolls, stretching almost from the island of Midway down towards the South West.

Swelling undersea mountains, they barely poke their rocky heads out above the ocean, home only to rare species of birdlife, protected from human encroachment by US law. American land - and a remote part of one of the most desirable group of holiday islands in the world - Hawaii.

The excitement has been building amongst passengers and crew since we learnt about our unanticipated detour via these islands. Though we realised we wouldn’t stop we at least hoped for a sighting of Honolulu, death-defying surfers and hula hula girls.

No chance - we’ll be passing near them during the night, through the Kauai Channel, the other side of Oahu island from the capital.

It’s hard to bear this: Hawaii! We never thought we’d come here, particularly by ship. Yet all we’ll see, if we’re lucky are a few lights.

The US is touchy about ships entering its territory, so this route is best. Straight on through and then set a course for the mainland.

We’re back in a populated area. The radar shows up the odd vessel and occasionally we spot one with the naked eye. American accents have started to pop up on the ship’s radio. We‘re no longer alone, at least for tonight.


Friday 5th December, Day Twelve, East of Hawaii

I awoke in the night, courtesy of a particularly large roll from the boat and checked the clock: 2.45am. We should be passing close to Oahu, one of the main Hawaiian islands, and home to the capital, Honolulu.

It was enough to spur us out of boat and peer through the windows: a revolving beam of light - a lighthouse - and a smudge of lights through the mist, but no dancing girls. That was our only view of Hawaii.

Still, it was exciting. The first real land since China.

When we arose again, for breakfast, the islands were far behind and we were ploughing through long, spread-out waves of the North sub-tropical current.

Back into the immensity.

There’s still another good eight inches of it on my map to cross before we reach the North American continent, with absolutely no land in between. Not a scrap.

The charts just show current and depths and features of the seabed. We will skirt around something called the Molokai Fracture Zone, before passing over the Moonless Mountains.

Sounds like something out of a Joseph Conrad novel.

Mid-morning Lara burst into the cabin, he face aghast. She jibbered incoherently and blushed profusely. My imagination whirled; what had she done? Raided the Captain’s sweetie cupboard? Broken into a cargo container and drank its contents?

Finally she calmed down and confessed: she’d been descending the outside decks, on her way from the bridge when she came across the captain, outside his cabin, sunbathing. Naked. A most delicate situation from which she had to extract herself. Yet another embarrassed casualty of the Teutonic fondness of bathing in the altogether, she now has to face him at lunch…

Later, another fire drill. Despite our preparedness and the two reminder phonecalls, we were still last. The crew again are most amused - the blighters must have been just standing there, waiting for the bell to go.

They are put through their paces whilst we test some different waters - those of the indoor swimming pool, more the scale of an overgrown goldfish pond than a pool.

It’s almost a miniature of the great pond outside, replete with salty seawater sloshing about, producing a good 5 foot swell within its modest confines. I splash about in its bracing waters; they’re too cool for Lara, barely topping 20 degrees. Dipping her toe in she emits a scream which shatters the windows and rushes for her towel. What would the Finns say?

No sea journey is complete of course without a game of ping pong and Cesar, the navigator obliges me, kindly whipping this naïve Englishman 9-0. He casually mentions the tournaments he’s entered back in his native Philippines.

Ping pong, swimming, larking about in lifejackets: who said being at sea is a hard life?


Saturday 6th December, Day 13, a long way off the Californian coast

The boat has begun to move in a new fashion, pitching up and down, ever so gently, as the current comes from the bow. A welcome change from the constantly rolling, and a chance for some uninterrupted sleep.

Have started to frantically read our Mexico guidebook and learn a few words of Spanish, preparation for our next destination soon after LA.

The self-improvement continues when Cesar (the navigator) gives me a elementary lesson on celestial navigation, that’s the way sailors used to find their way around using the stars to land lubbers like you and me. I am soon introduced to the Nautical Almanac and submerged in a world of computation tables and logarithms, haversines and natural secants.

All I wanted was a nice photo of a salty old sea dog with a big white beard and a sextant.

I drown my disappointment in a lunchtime bowl of soup, with frankfurters floating in it. Am seriously starting to consider whether Jamie Oliver is actually all that bad.

The Captain cheered me up with an insight into the world of contemporary piracy. It’s prominent in world news at the moment, giving recent events off the Somali coast.

His eyes narrowed, his cheeks flushed “They vill never board zis vessel! NEVER! We have rockets! High pressure hoses!” For their sake, I hope any chancers with ideas of storming this boat never give it a go.

A bird paid us a visit this afternoon - the first since Okinawa, ten days ago. We’re keeping an eye out for whales too - where the Californian coast offers the best chance of spotting them.

The temperature has become distinctly cooler. We’re out of the tropics now, our bearing of 70 degrees - straight to the Californian coast - leading us further and further north. The humidity has dropped, the sun is less strong.

Lara’s getting the last few hours of sunbathing.


Sunday 7th December, Day 14, still many miles from California

Another clock change - another return to bed after breakfast.

When I finally rise I notice the air temperature has dropped once more. The air conditioning in our room has now turned from a help to a hindrance. Outside it’s not much warmer, the stiff breeze bringing a new crispness to the air.

The sea is even calmer, from the bridge it appears almost flat, undulating very slowly towards the stern, hardly lifting the vessel at all.

As we head steadily towards the Californian coast both officers and crew all talk of their plans which, coincidentally, seem remarkably similar - a visit to Long Beach’s WalMart, to buy snacks for the weeks ahead. That’s all the time they get before they then must report back. Hardly seeing the world.

The Chief Engineer produces a candle at lunchtime and solemnly lights it; when I enquire whether he and the Captain would like to be left alone for a tender moment he reminds me it’s Advent, still marked in Germany.

By dinner, the Christmas lights have been hung up in the Officer’s mess, neither they nor the crew will be home for Christmas. Instead they’ll hold a rather modest-sounding celebration on board, with Joyson cooking a large pig.

We catch another glorious sunset, this time at the stern, the oranges and purples mixing in the palette of the waters, churned up by the ship’s huge propeller. I tell myself for the hundredth time what a fantastic way to travel this is then suddenly realise that’s it’s all soon to end.

Tomorrow is our last full day on board before Long Beach. We’ve been so comfortable here, in our luxurious surroundings, that we’re become accustomed to this way of life.

By far the longest amount of time we’ve stayed in one place (if you can call it that) we’ve unconsciously slipped into a routine, our first really since leaving London.

It’s comfortable and familiar; the outside world seems suddenly too difficult, requiring too much effort, living out of backpacks and carefully counting the pennies.

It's going to be strange returning to land when all you’ve looked at for the last 15 days is a big, blue watery world, an endless moving horizon. Back to solid ground, no more constant movement.

Suddenly life’s no going to be simple anymore. I anticipate a huge sensory assault as we step off the boat and venture into LA. It’s going to be like the boat into Shanghai all over again.
I almost want to stay on board, stowaway in one of our capacious cupboards and continue the adventure.


Monday 8th December, Day 15, the Californian coast

Our last day - California beckons. Outside it doesn’t look very Californian, more like a dull day on the north sea, the waters a slate grey, the sea air bracing.

But it’s there on the charts now, a huge landmass, big and bold. Seagulls have started to join us - it can’t be far.

We’re headed for Point Conception, the gateway to the shipping lanes right into Long Beach port. It’s best to stick to this - the charts show all manner of nasties to the south - dumping grounds for chemicals and explosives and a large hatched off-area in pencil, the warning reads ‘Missile Firing Exercise Area’.

It’s funny, the Americans seem perfectly content to dump toxic waste on their coastlines and wreck their local environment but they are paranoid about what potentially dangerous diseases we might be carrying.

Everyone has been warned several times to eat up any fruit they may have and empty their bins, to be caught with an apple or banana may well incur a $1000 fine. Even orange peel is classed as a contraband, potentially carrying some deadly disease ready to wipe out US agriculture.

Entering US waters seems complicated and awkward, like negotiating your way into an aquatic Fort Knox.

The Captain looks stressed out, stalking about with piles of papers in his hand, barking at the crew, ignoring his passengers.

Once he leaves the mess, the 2nd Officer can finally speak. Like most of the officers he’s no spring chicken, instead he’s two years left until retirement. There’s few young people coming through to replace him, he tells us, at least in Europe.

The few that do nowadays come from Germany or Scandinavia - Britain, with its proud maritime heritage, seems to send few men to sea anymore.

Like the crew, the future seems to lie in the East, India, the Philipines and, like with everything else, China.

We are witnesses to the last of the European officers.


Tuesday 9th December, Day 16, Long Beach
Land ahoy!

The dawn brings the coastline of California and the port of Long Beach. Time to finally get off this tub and leave our salty friends behind.

Fully loaded up (our bags feel heavier than ever) we bid the crew a fond farewell and step gingerly down the long, metal gangplank.

Land. Solid. Still.

Dodging the enormous trucks and swinging heavy metal containers we make for a small yellow bus, like a school bus out of an eighties movie, our transport out of the port.

"Hello America!" I yell enthusiastically as we climb aboard, snapping shots of the mighty Hugo behind us.

Bus driver is distinctly unimpressed: "Just to give you a heads-up, buddy, this is a high-security area, we're a terrorist target, you need to put that camera away".

Some welcome.

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The Only Woman on the Ship

When we arrived at the CMA CGM Hugo the Second Mate cried ‘Right gentlemen, here we are.’ Had he not noticed I have breasts?

Before boarding our floating hotel of 6,000 containers I had a suspicion that I would be the only woman onboard, and I was correct. Indeed at fire drill twenty surprised faces looked out from under florescent orange helmets to see me clambering through the door clutching an ‘adult oversize’ immersion suit to fit a person three times my size. But then given that the signs for the fire drill read ‘Gentlemen, today there will be a fire drill at 15:30...’ perhaps I really wasn’t expected. I was therefore a little apprehensive and to start with kept a low profile.

However, my voyage has not been the chauvinist experience I had chauvinistically expected. Sure there was a collection of dodgy DVDs (like the temptingly titled Erotic Werewolf in London), some strange comments ('You don’t eat seconds so that you stay sexy') and a number of wink wink nudge nudge jibes and jokes (especially after we announced our engagement), but this bunch of Germans, Filipinos and a Pole were real gentlemen.

So it would seem that I need to revise my prejudicial view of randy sailors based on tales of old from films, rumour and the Reeperbahn, for I have been able to sunbathe and have had a very pleasant journey. All apart from one traumatic experience - having visited the bridge to check our position and course I happened upon the Captain, or Master, sprawled out naked in the sunshine on a white towel with nothing but a flannel to cover his modesty. At that moment, I really wished I was a man.
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Wednesday 3rd December, 2008

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.

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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.
Just water. Lots and lots of it. We‘re crossing the biggest body of water in the world, one that covers a third of the entire globe.

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

Stirring up memories: seasickness and Stugeron on the ferry to Cherbourg; childhood stories of shipwrecked mariners; songs about drowning,; films about storms; news of sinking vessels; TV celebrity ‘survival’ shows featuring Carol Thatcher….

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 sunloungers 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.

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