Sailing Diary 2009

Christina Lee diary March 2009
Hello friends,
It’s been a while since you’ve heard from us, out in the windy wilds of the North African coast. Our obsession with the weather is not just an English trait, the enthusiasm is as high here as anywhere and not surprising. This coast is caught between the high pressure built up from the Azores, sweeping in from the west and the cold air coming down from the Alps. The convergence zone is usually over our heads. For land lubbers this is not a problem but for a community that has relied largely on the fishing off the hostile coast, it can be fatal.

We are currently tied to the wall in Mahdia, one of the largest and oldest fishing ports on the Tunisian east coast. They have been fishing the rich waters for time immemorial and the hostility of the sea is evident by the number of grave stones out on the headland. It’s a stark reminder of how hard it must have been before the internal combustion engine reduced some of the risk from plying a trade in the open sea but tradition runs deep here and some of the local’s still wear blue smock’s and use rowing boats to fish.

The prohibitive cost of an outboard necessitates the use of oars but this ensures they stay close to the security of the port should the weather change. The less well off fishermen have been usurped buy a bigger industry, using huge boats that can spend days out in deep water, flooding the market with all manner of delicacies. Most of the fish are exported to Italy, taken from here in refrigerated trucks, loaded up with ‘cold gold ‘packed in ice, never to be seen again..........

We left Yasmine Hammamet last week with no wind and a sea like glass. Our monthly rent period had expired and it was a good cue to leave. Within 20 min we saw our first Dolphins, always a good sign. I managed to get a couple of pictures in the crystal water below our bow. Fantastic creatures! You can’t tell how large they are in the picture but I would estimate about five feet.


When we did get some wind it was not for our benefit, cold and from the East. At least it helped to clear the thick fog that we were now motoring through, like a ghost ship in an empty sea. Our friends Kent and Philippe were ahead of us about 12 miles in a 40 year old wooden ketch and had phoned to warn us of the fog. We could not see them even on the radar. Five hours later and we were tied up to the ‘Pirate Ship’ birth (below) in Monastir. The usual occupant was away in Mahdia having its cutlasses sharpened prior to the arrival of the spring’s first guests. You would have to pressgang me to go on one of those nonsense vessels. They are very popular here, so what do I know?


We had four days in Monastir while we waited for the next weather window. On Monday our Yasmine friends Keith and Pam came down to shop for an industrial sewing machine in the back streets of the Medina. They were very lucky to get one for 100dhr, just serviced and tested, shame they didn’t have it when they made our new sprayhood! Dress making is still big business in Tunisia and the shops selling the material and stuff would keep Gay and Pam entertained for hours if Keith and I were not around.
The forecast for Thursday was good so with a plan to leave at ten we left the dock at eleven. 36dnr for four days, water and electric inc. To clear the shallows we had to sail slightly north of east and headed out into a moderate sea that had water running down the decks. With full main and genoah we were making 7 knots and the sun was shining! Kuriat Island lies east about eight miles off Monastir and we were obliged to sail out and round the lighthouse as I did not want to risk the channel that would have saved us about two hours as a shortcut. The coast is littered with wrecks so only a fool would take a chance with the current sea state, trying to find a narrow channel through the shoals........
Our downwind leg of the passage was horrible. The wind was directly behind and not strong enough to give us stability in the confused seas. We could only make 4+ knots so I had to resort to pushing up the waves with the motor to keep momentum. We settled down once we got clear of the 8 metre shallows and punted along at 6 knots to Mahdia where the wind dropped off, right on cue.
This picture shows a flat sea.....



....... If only it was like this all the time.

Below is Christina Lee prior to our leaving Yasmine. Gay is sorting out the paperwork while I take pictures. Flat calm, blazing sun...... dense fog 10 miles out.


We were surprised to see our Monastir neighbour already birthed against the wall in Mahdia. His catamaran was still tied up when we left five hours earlier? He had taken the short cut! Easy when your boat is only 12in deep in the water. We had to raft up against a locals day fishing boat as the cat’ was fairly light and we might have damaged it by pushing in into the harbour wall. It was only when we were safely tied up and talking to our new friends we noticed that the cat’ had broken both its rudders? The Swedish owner, sailing alone, assured us that he had hit something in the water, in 25m depth. I’m convinced he slid off a wave in the shallows with no dagger boards down and hit the bottom in the trough, both rudders snapped off clean below the stock.

Our other neighbours are a German couple who make Mahdia there home port. They have a nice aluminium sloop and a Honda Transalp. They are waiting to have their mast removed having been struck by lightning in January and losing all their electrics. Sad thing is they have a very expensive carbon fibre mast so the sparks went to ground via the roller furlers, damaging them as well as the nonconductive mast. To add insult to their injury, they are not insured.....

We have been crossing paths with another couple, also German, since we both left Melilla. They are also planning to visit Libya so we might go together and try to re-enact the battle of Tubruk.... He has an agent in Tripoli who can smooth things for us. The agent I was dealing with wanted 400 Euros per week for a birth and 3000 Euros for 14 days touring the country, sleeping in a tent. (I have no problem with the tent)

Till the next time.....

Graham and Gay, Christina Lee. Mahdia, Tunisia.

Up Counrty Burma 2010

Roads less travelled, Myanmar 2010

Now on my fourth visit to Myanmar, I was determined to escape the routine tourist sites that the Junta allow us manipulated foreigners to visit. Since the Tsunami in 2005 and the Cyclone in 2007, travelling has become more difficult for those with an interest in the country. Some say that the new restrictions are to protect the tourist from the dangers and annoyances in some remote regions or to prevent them from getting caught up in situations that may have a negative impact on the goodwill of the ruling military?

Transporting yourself from one part of the country to the other, without relying on flying, was never a straightforward procedure and usually requires one to make the arrangements through a government licensed tour operator. For reasons as yet unknown, our local agent has closed his doors and vanished? Was trade bad, or did he upset a few too many people in command? Transport timetables are all subject to change from day to day and without the right connections, no pun intended, you can’t get from place to place without delays. The tour operators have agents in all areas and they have up to date information on what is running and what is not. You can’t rely on a local to know what the busses are doing 200 miles up country. With time running out I thought I would just hop on a bus and make the best of it!

My initial plan was to take a bus/coach to Sittwe in Rakhaing State, North West of the country but due to the restrictions, I would not be permitted to travel all the way by road. Normally a foreigner would just fly there but between Yangon and Sittwe lies the Rakhaing Yoma mountain range, an area that see’s no tourism due to the shear inaccessibility of the place. I was booked on the 8.30am bus from Yangon bus terminal, a huge, sprawling, dusty and incredibly busy area about 10 miles north of the city. Thankfully the taxi driver knew where to drop me at the ‘Asia Express’ office on the north side. Arriving early at 6.30 to get a good seat did me a favour, I got the 7.30 bus instead and sat behind the driver with an excellent view of the road ahead, destination Pyay, formally Prome.

As is the norm for long road trips in Myanmar, the bus’s stop frequently at roadside cafe’s so we can all stretch our legs, have some food and smoke a cheroot. The no smoking rule applies here and is a blessing for us non-smokers. Of course you can still chew Betel nut and spit out the widows all you like, as everyone does, leaving streaks of red saliva down the sides of the bus. Added to that, the constant hacking of phlegm making for a delightful cacophony of traditional Burmese life. Thanks go to Apple for the IPod!

The journey was relatively painless and as it was in daylight there were lots of interesting things to witness. How nobody was killed by the erratic operations of the bus driver is anyone’s guess. The rules of the road are the same as in the UK, Might has Right so if you happen to be on a trishaw or bicycle you stand no chance.

Bus drivers know only one speed and once there, they like to stay there. There is a metamorphic sense built into the bus driver that can somehow make the bus two feet narrower than it appears and the tarmac to be another foot wider than the strip that I could see from my perch behind the crazed nutter at the wheel. When two of these mobile slaughter house operators meet head on it’s a battle of wills and if a cyclist is in the mix, they know to head for the ditch, taking pillions with them. To add to the excitement the driver will sound his loudest sirens and air horns to blast all obstacles into space. Rest assured, it’s not as bad as India!

Having safely arrived on time in Pyay, I am immediately set upon by willing locals who are desperate to ingratiate themselves into my wallet by providing me with further services, including forward transport, food and lodging, transport to hotels or maybe just wanting to practice their English. I sit down in a cafe and drink a cold Sprite whilst I contemplate my options with the help of the Lonely Planet. After a while I’m left with only two ‘helpers’, one of which is sober and speaks English well enough that I can discuss my plans with. From Pyay I plan to take the overland route through the mountains to Tounggok, from there I can take a ferry to Sittwe.

My new friend leaves his Trishaw and walks me round the bus depot to a ticket desk. All about the floor are resting Monks and other passengers waiting for the imminent departure of the bus to Tounggok. The vehicle of choice is a Midi-van designed for a maximum of eight persons, converted to carry twelve by the addition of seat extensions. Luggage? What luggage? This bus would be great; I would arrive with a day to spare before catching the ferry. No chance! Fully booked for two days! With hindsight I should have looked for other options.... At least by booking in advance I get to choose my seat, number three widow seat between the wheels for a smoother ride. Such ignorance......

So I have two days to kill in a city/town that the British made their capital and is situated on the East bank of the mighty and majestic Ayeyarwady River, the motorway of Myanmar. It could be worse, tourists come here so the options on accommodation a varied, in style, value and smell. I opt for the LP recommended Lucky Dragon as it was new and next to the river. At twenty bucks a night it was expensive but what the hell, I was saving on the air fare. The owner assured me that they have 24hr generators so no power cuts. I had five within the first evening, not a big deal but when you have the luxury of AC and TV, you tend to use them. What a spoilt brat!

I spent the evening wandering the town and taking the obligatory sun set pictures of the literally burning hills of the opposite river bank. Slash and Burn culture is all they know. As I sat on the veranda of the local bar, drinking my first cold Myanmar Beer I was entertained by the squadron of Fruit Bats that had taken flight down the river to their feeding grounds to the south. These creatures are huge! I thought at first they were Cattle Egret’s as they have the same lazy wing beats. The shape of the wing, seen from directly below, gives them a distincly sinister look.

The following day the bats were all hanging in a tree, making a hell of a racket and shitting all over the floor. It’s ironic that they choose to live above the police station. They are obviously not good eating as I have not seen them on the menu, ‘bat on a stick, get ‘em while there hot, their lovely!’ I’ll wait till we’re in Malasia before trying anything too exotic though my old favorite ‘deep fried Sparrow’ was in season....

My included breakfast gave a choice of either ‘continental’ or ‘local’. I took the precation of having a look at what the other guests were consuming and the ‘continental’ seemed the favorite with the Burmese. Call me fussy but fried eggs and toast is not from my continent so I ordered Mohinga, the soupy noodle dish with chopped egg, onion, parsley and as much chilli as you dare add. A huge bowl arrived that would have fed two people so I struggled a bit to eat it all. Waste not, want not, that will do for lunch as well, yummee.... burp!

Rather than spend the day by the pool drinking imaginary cocktails I set off armed with my Canon and two gig of ammunition. I had missed the best time of the day for shooting but I felt better for staying in bed an extra couple of hours. By 10am the sun is hot and the haze has risen making for blurry pictures so close up’s were the best option. Pyay has long been a centre for Buddist schooling so the abundance of pagodas, stupas, gilt buildings and fancy staiways made for an interesting day of photography. The main Pagoda sits atop a large hill with the opton of a lift for the fat lazy tourists or a long flight of steps, covered by an ornate tiered roof supported by hundreds of pilars, all marked with the names of the generous belivers in the afterlife who paid for them. Unlike the Shwedegon in Yangon, the steps were devoid of hawkers and free to walk up so, having removed my stinky Merrells, I set off.

To be continued... eventually.