The Last Long Haul?

20th July 2010. In recent weeks we have re-visited Malta and Sicily, on route to a new destination, the Aeolian Islands, north of Sicily. For the Italians, it’s a little bit of paradise, only an hour away from their home ports on the West coast, or 30min for the flash Sicilians with their powerful phallic extensions, burning more fuel than we use in a month. The islands are volcanic, Stromboli being the most famous as it is still active and was sadly closed due to it’s recent explosive temperament. Quite how you close a volcano to the public, I‘m a bit unsure as there are several paths that lead to the summit. I guess the ‘tour group’ companies have a responsibility to protect the paying punters from being fried alive or squished by falling rocks so they wont take anyone past the 400m line.



We had already climbed to the summit of Vulcano, the first island of the chain but I was keen to climb to the top of a ‘real’ volcano. Sadly we ran out of time or got bored of waiting for the re-opening, so we left. It was the first week of the summer charter market and we were attracting too many other ‘yachties’ who seemed to think that Christina Lee was sitting on the only available piece of Ocean than can be anchored on. You would not believe how close some of the idiots drop their own anchors next to us. I have taken to shouting at them to move further away, that generally works. They seem quite oblivious to the swing available when you drop 40m of 8mm chain in 5m of water. OK, so that sounds like a lot of chain to the yachties amongst you but there was a 1 knot current running and lots of loose rocks. I like to get tangled in as many as I can so we eventually don’t swing too far. Our other specialist piece of kit is Wilson. Wilson we picked up in Ibiza some years ago. He consists of a rigid plastic fishing float about 300mm in diameter attached to a short piece of chain and 15m of old halyard tied to the CQR anchor. From the central hole he wears a four foot bamboo stick to which is attached our redundant yellow Q (nothing to declare) flag with an anchor drawn on in striking black felt pen. He looks splendid, bobbing away in the distance, waving his flag to all comers and silently shouting ‘keep away you muppets!’ The problem with Wilson is that he’s a bit clingy. On several occasions he has found his way back to us during the night as the wind inevitably goes 180 and he wakes us by banging along our waterline, tapping his stick along the rubbing strake, like Stevie Wonder walking down the Kings Rd. I eventually have to get out of bed, start the engine and reverse the boat back at speed and drag the chain to a point where he cant reach us. Just what you want to be doing at 4am….

We loved the Islands, they are a bit special though too busy at this time of year with the multitude of ferries and hydrofoils plying their way between the islands and the mainland. No group of islands are better served with transport between each. (what’s it like in the Winter I pondered?) The sea water quality around the islands is also the best I have seen in the Med, better than Malta and surprisingly abundant with marine life. On one snorkel trip we were amazed to see Tunny (baby Tuna) an Octopus and a Moray eel, as well as vast numbers of smaller fish in large schools. Gay spotted most of the creatures, I might add. I don’t think we shall be so well entertained until we reach the Red sea?

Leaving the Islands, we had to motor back as the expected NW wind failed to materialise as usual. We were joined by a few others all going the same way, they all overtook us as I refused to run the engine any faster than 1500 revs in order to save fuel. We can still make 4.5-5kn so when we do eventually get a bit of breeze we get to a thrilling 6kn or more! It was well worth the effort cleaning the underside, we save fuel and sail faster in less wind. The journey was made all the better for having been visited by three different pods of Dolphins that played under our bow and gave me a chance to video them in the crystal clear water. They are truly amazing creatures and will melt the heart of the hardest soul. They turn on their sides and look up at us as they effortlessly dance along beneath our vantage point on the bow. A good omen?

Messina Straights have a reputation going back thousands of years as being dangerous for sailing ships due to the currents, over falls and whirlpools as well as the squalls that hammer down from the mountains, Odysseus even had trouble and despite having the contrary winds given to him in a bag, the waters were untamed and looking for vulnerable yachtsmen, caught without the luxury of diesel engines. Many lives have been lost here but since the earthquake in 1783 the ocean floor has changed and the Charybdis whirlpool that could spin a 74 gun ship has been tamed slightly. On our run up the straight we got all the information on the tides and the timings relative to Gibraltar so we could make the best use of the currents. We sailed most of the way out but due to the heavy ferry traffic we motored the last part and had an easy run. Going south with the wind but against the current was not so easy and as I decided to go down the east side we met the worst of the currents. We had the motor running and the GPS was showing 7.5kn but when we hit the overfalls and turbulent waters just north of the ferry terminal we dropped to 1.5kn and the Autopilot could not cope with the changing directions of the water. I went to manual and had a job to get us pointing in the right direction, the ferry skippers must have had a laugh as we swerved about and struggled to make forward progress. I very nearly turned round to head back and cross to the other side of the straight where the huge battleship had just gone down but I didn’t, within ten min’ were passed the headland and back to 5.5kn on stable water. Exciting it was but not to be repeated!

We arrived back at Reggio di Calabria and went against the disused commercial dock to sit beneath the tower crane, in the swell of the ferries and the smell of sewage being discharged 100m in front of us. Anything to save 50 Euro. The local men with nothing else better to do, stand above us on the dock and peer down like curious penguins. As soon as it’s dark the fishermen take their positions for the nightly ‘shit eating fish’ catching competition. We moved to the adjoining wall the next day so we could skank some free water and fill up with diesel. We heard rumour that fuel was 1.50 in Greece so it was worth getting some ’cheap’ at 1.36 per litre. Another 102 litres and we were good to go the following morning at 6am. The port official wanted to move us off the wall but we explained that we were soon to be gone and he let us be. The 74 year old Danish man behind us had to move so we helped with his lines as he was alone. He came for a beer later and we enjoyed his reminisces of the region 30 years prior. The best years for cruising have long gone and only gave me a feeling that we had missed the boat when it came to affordable living in the Med, (outside of Africa). We shall see…

The next port was 63 miles round the big toe of Italy and promised to be a good sail with the winds from the west. I got the mizzen and main up inside the port and as we left the harbour wall to port, I unfurled the genoa and we flew south, with the engine off at 5/6kn. Three hours of hand steering as the sun rose and Gay sleeping in the saloon was the best sailing for a long time. Almost without notice the wind changed 180 deg and we were back to burning precious diesel again. As we pottered along the South coast we were again overtaken by others going East, possibly to Greece or Turkey for the summer season, maybe Croatia and the Dalmatian coast?

Our next landfall was known to be difficult due to a sand bar across the entrance so I wanted to arrive in good time and save the embarrassment of going aground before entering Roccela Ionica Marina. Sods law dictates that even with the best planning something will fail you at the last moment and you get stuck with a fishing boat up your transom wondering what you are playing at. As a precaution I made up an Irrawaddy depth gauge for Gay to use on the bow, just like her father would have had when he worked the great Burmese river after the war. It consisted of two sections of plastic pipe making about 6m, marked with 1m increments that could be dipped off the bow. Water clarity was not good and my yachts depth gauge was vague so a fully manual system was going to be reliable?

We followed the pilot book instructions and kept well clear, I also called up the port on the VHF for directions. She said there was a risk of ‘grunding’ so keep near the red light? Great! She even called back and repeated the advice. We had a bit of wind pushing us in but I could see masts in the port so it must be possible. We trickled at 1.5kn as the depths fell and Gay kept probing the bottom that was now in view. We got to 1.7m and I hit reverse as we ground at 1.5 on the boats instruments. Gay suggested going nearer the shore so we did and found the depths rising. By this time we had the obligatory trawler following us, having cut the corner as he knew the depths. He was very patient and allowed us to take our time as we entered the outer wall. We stuck to the port side and as we entered the depths went up to 4m and I could start breathing again. Excellent! We made it.

When the marina was planned they obviously hadn’t factored in the effect of a big wall extending out into the sea causing a dead zone in its lee where the sand would drop and make the port un-navigable to yachts? As a result it had been left to it’s own devices and had no electricity or water at the numerous taps. Two taps did have water though so they were much in demand by those that had braved the entry. We paid the local police man 20 Euro, who had stood waiting for us to tie up, offering no help as we came in. Fortunately a smiling Czechoslovakian lady in her knickers took our lines, that’s a first! We were later joined by several other boats, mostly incompetent Italians, filling all the available spaces. We were one of three British yachts, one of which had been hit by lightning and had lost all their instruments. She explained that it was the same day that England lost to Germany and went out of the ‘Prima donna Cup’. They should have left before the inevitable…..


We stayed another night and managed to avoid paying the policeman as most of the other boats had avoided paying and the Italians didn’t out of principle. Our course options were to stick inland and follow the shore or head out and make the most of the westerly breeze. The latter option worked and our new cruising chute managed to stay filled for about three hours till about 6pm. Following the wind dying, as I was sure it would do, it came back 180 deg so we made the best of it. It grew steadily stronger and within an hour was blowing 22+kn and the sea was starting to build but now the wind was more north and pushing us off course. The light was failing and the next few hours were not going to be pleasant. What to do? Head north to the lee of Italy or run off down wind and see where we get to? Going down wind with a following sea was really uncomfortable so we tacked back and headed towards the point we would have been headed for if we had taken the ‘easy’ inshore route. By this time we were 25 miles off the ball of Italy and faced arriving at the unknown anchorage at about 5am if we were lucky. The other factor was the crazy lightning I could see in the distance, no mention of that before we left port?

After a bit of tacking back and forth to get back to our original ground track to Corfu, the wind had gone more in our favour so we stuck to 65deg, closed hauled with three reefs in the genoa and a full main. Only 130 miles to go at an average of 5 kn. We ploughed on through the night and I wondered to myself, why do I do this? The sea is shit, the wind is never where you need it and I’m starving. No chance to do more than make coffee in the heaving galley, even the stove goes past the point of diminishing stability and jams itself at 45 deg on it’s gimbals. Gay is feeling unwell and belatedly takes some Stugeron. When will it ever end?

Eventually the sun make it’s presents felt as it claws it’s way up the grey eastern sky and my hopes are lifted. We have only been sailing 14hrs but I feel pretty tired. It’s like doing a full on workout just to stay planted on deck, holding onto the shrouds or the mizzen mast, bracing myself against the constant rocking as we crest the waves and drop down the other side, the sails fighting to stay filled as the mast surges back and forth. Anyone who thinks Ellen MacArthur is a lightweight might like to consider what it must be like to go up a 95ft mast, unassisted, in the southern ocean. As it becomes light I leave my place at the X trainer and go below for a quick nap. Gay is half asleep but as we are in the open sea and away from any major shipping lanes I can relax, a bit. I have only been down for what seems like a couple of minutes when something wakes me up with a start. I look at the radar and see a huge black blob, about two miles wide, just to the north of us. In my half asleep, dozy state I think it must be an island or something. I rush up on deck and peer into the half light. I wish it had been an island or even a band of pirates, what we were facing was a huge thunder cloud and below it was a wall of water, charged full of electricity. All I could see was this light brown mass that looked like smoke. I was concerned. No, I was shitting myself.

We have met people that have been hit by lightning, only yesterday in fact. There is no mention in any of the books that I have as to what to do when you are faced with imminent electrocution from mother earth. Our German friends got hit and it blew their forestay and all of the electrical appliances on board. We were 80 miles from land and I did not relish the thought of having to hand steer for another 18 hours with only the binnacle compass. It was like having to face the white rabbit without brother Maynards holy hand grenade for protection. Running away is what was required. The system was tracking south west so we turned 30 deg, just south of east and opened the throttle to 2500 revs. We had plenty of wind but I was loathe to throw up more canvass as thunderheads also come with big winds, if it caught us we would be in even bigger trouble. I went below and removed the aerial from the VHF as that would be the first thing to be vaporised, being at the top of the main mast. I then turned off the computer and removed the battery. I tried to put it in the oven but it was too big. I did the same to Gays Net book and also the Garmin chart plotter. How many things can you isolate when you might get stuck by 50 million volts? I’m glad I didn’t have a pace maker but I think I might be needing one soon…..

I may have done many crazy things in the past but I don’t think I have had so much prolonged agony as trying to avoid being arrested by natures version of a Taser. Even bike racing was less stressful. I could only watch as we raced along at a record 12.8kn on the GPS max speed recorder. The lightning was striking the water at what seemed only half a mile away but it was much further in reality and the thunder was crashing about the sky just above our lonely floating conductor. I felt like we were waving our mast about saying ‘strike me, strike me’. Gay was blissfully unaware of my childlike fear as I crouched on hands and knees just outside the companionway, not even daring to clip my safety harness on as it might connect me somehow to the rigging, should we get zapped.

Thankfully we survived the ordeal and I felt not only relieved but also quite embarrassed for being such a wimp in the face of a thunderstorm. It must be my age?

As I watched the dreaded cloud move slowly away on the radar I thought to check the Navtex for any warnings that may be in process. Well bugger me, Thunderstorms right along the corridor. Thankfully the warning expired at 06.00 and we were looking at high cloud and a 15/20kn northerly wind to get us back on track and safely across to the anchorage in St George Bay, Corfu, some 16 hours later at 02.30 Tuesday.

I think we might stick to day sailing for a while, take the easy route along the coast…Gay would also be much happier!!!!

Tales from Simon the salty sea dog

Grrrrr, well hello friends, sorry you haven’t heard a bark from me for months, it’s not for want of trying I can assure you. I’ve been stuck on this damn yacht for the last five months with not even a walk, a change of view or any food. It’s a good job I didn’t need a pee. My hair is all out of place and not been trimmed as it’s supposed to be, I look more like one of those poncy Bishon Freeze than a proud German Snautzer.

I guess you could say I’ve not got much to complain about, what are my options after all? I could have stayed in the UK and had to share space and affection with that ginger feline Sméagol or been stuffed in a box and put away out of sight someplace like the loft and that would have been awful! Having spent the last 20 years staring out of the window, watching the world go by I deserve better than the box or the charity shop, don’t you think?

So what am I doing to amuse myself this year? I’ve decided to stick with the best of a bad job as it’s a long walk back and I don’t have a bloody pet Passport, chances are I would end up stuck in Africa living with a stuffed camel for a mate, not even a decent view and the constant din of the Mosque just outside the unglazed window. No, this year I’m going to travel, go to places that my former keeper may have been but not me, always left to guard the house in bleedin’ blighty. Did you know, till last year I’d never been abroad?

The season started off with a 32 hour blast across the Med from Hammamet to Malta in a 25 knot wind and a sea that was like a wonky waltza at Pikey Pat’s fairground. Luckily having not eaten my bowl of pedigree stuffing, I felt fine. It was good to get back out on the open sea again and get some fresh wind in my whiskers, my new ‘keepers’ were not having as good a time as me, they have an inner ear rather than cotton wool. I did get to spend some quality time out in the blazing sun, bleaching my grey hair even more and earning my keep by looking out for marauding pirates, vessels limited in their ability to manoeuvre,

and the odd sea bird. The latter being sadly lacking but we did get a visit from a pigeon who obviously thought we would make a nice perch.


Not a single Dolphin was spotted, despite assurances from the Crew that we would see some, only millions and millions of jelly fish. I had to wonder what was going on with the World, from my prospective it seemed to be getting seriously out of balance. What’s the sense in killing the very creatures that keep the beaches full of tourists all season as they eat the Jellyfish? It makes me mad and I’m only a virtual Pet! I know my keepers are also unhappy as they are always berating the ‘bastard fishermen’ who do the damage, (well it’s the man mostly who goes on about it, he moans all the time about something. I think he is only happy when he is airing some petty grievance about the local population, wherever we may be!)

Having not been on land for some time we were hoping to get a free berth down by the old submarine pens at the bottom of Grand Harbour, out of sight of the marina office. Since the last time we were here they have expanded the mooring space and taken over our old spot, we were told to leave and call the marina office for a place. I was gonna leap ashore and run off so we could stay but my legs wouldn’t work. I never got my walk or a chance to sniff other places.

When we next stopped all I could smell was pig turd and dog shit. The smell of cats was pretty strong also and I was desperate to go ashore and chase some, if only my stupid legs would let me. As it was all I could do was watch them on the shore, being chased by some of my relations, most frustrating! One of the locals looked very familiar; he had an uncanny resemblance to a New Zealand Huntaway that I knew in a previous life. That’s the good thing about being a Pedigree: we are exclusive creatures that don’t run wild (or run anywhere in my case).

East at Last

Despite the coldest winter for years in the UK, we returned to warm sunshine and clear skies. Well what did we expect at the end of March, rain? We listened to stories from those that had gone without water and electricity, limited food supplies and a Government that didn’t give a toss for the old folks. I thought we had left Burma in February, where such minor problems are just an everyday occurrence?

The three months away in Asia were very soon gone and the two months we planned to stay in England were getting so booked up with jobs that needed to be done before we returned to the boat, I feared that leaving might never happen.

I didn’t make life any easier for myself by deciding to rebuild the engine in our ‘camper’, two weeks before we were due to fly back to Tunisia. Sadly, the crucial parts I needed (big ends and mains) were in Italy and when they arrived, they were not the correct size. I blame the bloke in parts that ordered them but he was very helpful in sourcing replacements, also from Italy but this time from Fiat rather than Iveco.

It did go back together in time but I wish I hadn’t started, other jobs got pushed out and some were forgotten altogether. To add to my misery, the Turbo blew up on the Sprinter Van, two days before we were due to leave. I wouldn’t have been bothered but as a friend was taking it to Spa, in Belgium, the following week for the Classic Endurance, it needed to get fixed quickly. I won’t bore you with the failings of others for fear of slander; suffice to say the van did not go to Spa this year and someone is off my Christmas card list (if I had one)...

What else could go wrong I pondered as we left a depressing Britain? Refreshingly on time, BA from Gatwick (Thanks Bruce!) and within our extended weight limit, all was good? (Did I forget to mention the new £1500 Cruising Chute from Dolphin Sails arrived only four days before we left, dumped on the street outside the office without even a signature?)

Our ever reliable friend Mick was on time to collect us from Tunis Airport and regaled with current tales from the Marina as we drove south down the ‘new’ motorway to Port Yasmine, Hammamet. It felt good to be back.

Christina Lee had now spent the longest time unattended since we bought her but she had been washed and aired prior to our arrival by Mick’s trusty wife, Jo, bless her. It’s never a pretty sight to return to your boat if you keep it in Africa, constantly being blasted by red dust from the Sahara that ingrains itself into every orifice. The infrequent winter rains had taken its toll and as hard as the dehumidifier had tried to dry out the inside of the boat, it had leaked water onto the floor and damaged the laminate. The roof had leaked onto the table and that was now de-laminating and had gone dark in places. The engine start battery had expired, only three years old, still in nappies. The outboard motor was sulking and I had to strip the carb’ three times before it would run properly. Hey Ho, what else would I do with my time?

We have finally arrived in Siracusa Sicily, from Malta and are enjoying a welcome rest after being stuck in Valetta for five days. Stuck being the operative word as the NW wind did not go below a force five for nearly a week and we were marooned like a leper colony, out in Rinella Fort anchorage, Grand Harbour. It’s one of our favourite places to stay, not just because it’s free but it has a fantastic view of the harbour and we can see all the comings and goings of the very busy port, just off the bow. At the weekend the local’s converge on the bay as it’s the only spot that has some semblance of a beach, whole families will camp out on the sea wall with their BBQ’s and beer for the entire weekend. We did feel sorry for some of them as they were not prepared for the wind and it ain't easy fixing a tent to tarmac let alone cooking. This picture was taken before the wind arrived. After the first few days of wind I managed to sleep at night as we seemed to be staying in the same place, though sailing on the anchor chain a lot. It turned out that the chain was stuck round a rock and we would never have dragged; the anchor was not even buried in the sand. The mind can play terrible tricks on you when you are in bed and on anchor, I never sleep well but Gay is out like a drunk. Guess I’d better get used to life on the hook, as that’s what it will be this year.

This Vessel was about twelve miles long and taller than Everest, I kid you not....... The Tug is 60 feet.

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 sees 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 busses stop frequently at roadside cafes 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 window seat between the wheels for a smoother ride. Such ignorance.....
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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 accommodation options are 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 sunset 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 distinctly 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 precaution 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 pillars, all marked with the names of the generous believers 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.

Gone to Gozo!

Despite having a whole ten weeks in the UK for the summer, we hardly saw anyone! Sorry but we can only fit in so much partying and we ain’t getting any younger...

So, back to port Yasmine Hammamet, our current ‘home’ port. Easy living, great weather and nice people. During our short time away from the boat, the temperature in Yasmine went crazy. People were complaining that it was 42+ and their pants were on fire. So jump in the sea ya muppets! Inside our boat it must have been in the 50’s. Shame we didn’t have a max/min thermometer so we would know exactly but the damage soon became apparent. I’m not talking about all that red wine that has been super heated or the canned food that has expanded but not exploded.

The 12volt fridge makes all the right noises but refuses to get cold? It was working fine before, though a little lazy. Finally got a man to come and check it and he said it had no gas inside the compressor thingy. He takes it away, solders up the joints and returns it back into the space it lives in. There then follows a lot of head scratching and inactivity, it will not run anymore? In typical Tunisian fashion he has forgotten how it was wired up. Six wires, eight options. He goes away and I have another look at it. Finally reduced the options to two wires and four possible places, then one wire in three. Bingo! Easy when you know how...or not. The guy then had to come back and fill it with gas (r134a) and now it works like new, hurrah!! Cost the princely sum of 50 dinar including a spare can of the gas. (25 quid)

The other major problem was not so cheap. Our ‘gray’ water pump that chucks all the sink and shower waste out into the ocean was having serious organ failure. It was puffing and wheezing but not much stink water was leaving the tank, bugger. Having taken the horrible smelly pump apart and investigated the reason for its demise, one of the valves had split and would no longer seal correctly. Can I get another? In Tunisia? NO! I trawled around the mucky back streets of Tunis, poking my smelly pump part under the noses of several would-be plumbing outlets, to no avail. This episode was made worse by having the heavens open up and dump about an inch of rain in 30 seconds, the subsequent flood and discharge from the drains made my already tested patience expire.

I returned to a previously rejected shop that had a new, complete, all singing, all dancing, ‘Jabsco Water Puppy’. Having reluctantly resigned myself to purchasing the said new pump, 345 dinar was the asking price,( divide by two for pounds) I made it back to the shop to find it closed due to flooding! Can it get any worse I thought, standing in 3 inches of rising sewer water, peering through the bars of the darkened shop front?

My sobs of desperation were silenced when I noticed the tightly wrapped shop assistant standing in the doorway, waiting for a gap in the torrent so she could scarper. I explained my predicament to her in a mixture of Arabic, French, hand gestures and pitiful facial expressions. It was enough, she took me in a side door, past all the other staff trying to stop the incessant roof leaks ruining the remaining stock where I duly gave away all my recently withdrawn cash and got no receipt.

The new ‘Puppy’ was mine! I could have got three sheep for the price of one puppy but I had to move on and sod the expense. My troubles were not over. Oh No. My yacht’s water outlet pipe was an inch and a quarter and the pump outlet was half inch BSP. Not a problem I thought, just go back to my friendly plumber on the corner and he’ll sort out the adapters so it screws into the pump ½ inch and finishes at 1 1/4inch. The plumber was not having a good day. His roof leaked worse than the last shop but his stock was either made of iron or electrical, neither of which enjoys moisture. The boys were running around moving stuff and frantically pushing the floodwater out into the street that was now a large, tidal river. If only my pump was self powered....

I returned the following day, positive and refreshed, to Tunis, this in itself no easy task. Ten minutes on the bus to the Luage (VW Transporter or similar), 50 min on the suicidal motorway to the terminal in Tunis, then another ten minute walk along the minefield that is the pavement, to the plumbers. He was shut. It’s bloody Saturday for Christ’s sake! Sorry, Mohammed’s sake!!!! I crossed the road to another friendly purveyor of fine water management fixtures who, after trying every similar shop in the block, took me to a man in a cave. Having entered the black whole of Tunis and given my eyes time to adjust to the oily gloom, I became aware of a lathe being operated by a gorilla. It was explained to the machine operator by my new found friend that I required enough material removed from the metric fitting supplied, that it would then fit snugly into the sample of imperial pipe I had bought with me. Simple really. Another 15 dinar for 20 min of his skill with a vernier and off we went. My guide would not take a penny and even paid for the much needed coffee, despite my protestation. All I had to do now was assemble the multitude of adaptors with 14 miles of PTFE tape and see how well the Heath Robinson Contraption preformed. It Leaked. I started again. It leaked less. Bugger it! I had other things that needed fixing......

The clock was ticking and I was getting impatient to go sailing. As normal, the weather window was slammed in my/our face/s and we were left the option of staying put and going to a 40/60 birthday party at the pub or sailing in rough seas and 25 knots of wind??

You might think that the first option would be the better one, but consider this: staying in the pub till four in the morning, drinking bottles of strong Lager and dancing our arses off is not conducive to clear headed skippering at 8am. I drank six bottles of beer and left at ten thirty. Professionalism personified!

The following morning I delegated the bureaucratic obstacles of Police, Customs and Marina checkout to Gay. It can save at least an hour of valuable downwind sailing time by sending a member of the fairer sex into the sexually starved annuls of Tunisian Departure Inc. They love paperwork and only speak French and Arabic so my Python-derived humour techniques are lost on them and can make for awkward situations.

8.15am we were free of Africa! Only another 190 miles of open water between us and Malta, a forecast of 15-25kn NW wind should see us there by lunchtime on Sunday, sadly too late to watch the Moto GP in the pub but at least arriving in daylight.

First sighting of Dolphins was about 10.30am. I saw a pod of about five playing around just off the bow. Gay was asleep in the saloon and I was not sure that waking her was worthwhile, they always disappear soon after. They did.

This is a Mexican Lion. A dog shaved to great effect.


After 28 hours of rough going we arrived battered and bruised in Gozo, the boat in its usual post smack-head burglary condition. As expected the Customs guy was very helpful and made our arrival a pleasure rather than a pain. This year the sea is full of huge jelly fish the size of dinner plates!! They don’t sting allegedly but are quite intimidating when you are swimming round them.

Gay will be doing her PADI Open Water diver course and I will be doing some exploring of Second World War planes and boats on the sea bed. More news when we have it....

Mgarr Harbour, Gozo.

Maltese Mysteries

In stark contrast to Lampedusa Island, Malta’s history is graphically evident from some distance offshore. It’s as subtle as a punch in the face. Probably the most fortified city in the world, Valletta has seen more than its fair share of battles, on land, sea and from the air. I won’t bore you with a history lesson but humans have been fighting over this lump of rock for thousands of years and as a result it has become a major stronghold for merchants and traders using the Mediterranean corridor from the Red sea (post canal) to the Atlantic and beyond. If you control Malta, you control the trade.

As a British protectorate since Nelsons time and only given independence in 1963 it has become a little part of Britain but still keeps its strong Arab and Turkish influences. The Maltese people are proud of their history, though quite what lineage the locals are from is hard to discern. The language is 60% Arabic but sounds quite different to what we have been listening to for the last three years and their facial features look more Italian or Greek. Thankfully they all speak good English so we can now relax a bit and Gay does not have to do all the talking (French) for a change.

For a petrol head like me, Malta is like a 24hr vehicle show only the vehicles are still in use and drive by all day. Hillman Hunters, Morris Marinas, Datsun 120’s-140’s, Ford Cortina’s, Mk1 Escorts, Mini’s and the ubiquitous local bus service, providing cheap stylish travel for all. Plaxtons coachworks could never have imagined their sturdy coaches would be still going strong in the 21st century and for only 47 cents per trip. They are full and frequent, not like in the UK. They drive on the left also. Sadly the EU wants them off the road.


Malta joined the Euro Zone in 2004 and as a result everything became more expensive and rules and regulations started to come in to a place where self governance meant live and let live. It must have been a great place to live before this fundamental political change: greater tolerance, less officialdom and freedom to get on with life on a little island in the middle of the Med. You can imagine the island was like the Isle of Wight (where?) with a thriving tourist industry and sunshine. Maybe I’m being a bit romantic; the old Ladies don’t have blue rinses, they dye their hair black in true Catholic tradition and waddle about dressed in black also.

Churches, Cathedrals, monuments and religious figures in stone, bronze and marble are situated on almost every corner of the city. It can be a bit overpowering for an Atheist, so what it must be like if you’re a Muslim, heaven only knows (pun). Islam has been built over and I have yet to see a mosque or hear the call to prayer, though I have seen Muslims. I think even the Jews have all gone to Israel.



The religious architecture is impressive, though vulgar in my eyes, and the craftsmanship is incredible. Considering some of this dates back to the 17th century, before the tower crane and fork truck made lifting lumps of stone easy and safe, there must have been some serious accidents. It amazes me that despite the abject poverty around during the time these ostentatious piles were built, they were welcomed by the locals who lived in squalor and had to pay taxes to the church. Such is the power of the afterlife and the promise of eternal peace......

Feeling like tourists and not travellers, we took the bus to Mdina City, some 30min southwest. A two day Medieval pageant was taking place and re-enactments of the time where tastefully dotted about around the shit-free streets. Local trades like basket making, pottery, armour fitting, flea eradication, weaving etc were to be seen in action just like it would have been in 1666, even the musicians had the correct attire and instruments while the Knights that were not staging regular fight scenes in the courtyard could be seen playing board games of the period. Mdina history goes back to 3000bc and like its big sister, Valetta, it is built to withstand invasions, sitting proudly atop the biggest hill for miles. On a clear day you can see France...




The Maltese are great bird lovers. They love to shoot them as they migrate from Africa to Europe and very few birds can be seen in and around the city’s, not even Crows or Starlings. Falconry is still a big crowd pleaser and the display of birds at the pageant was impressive but for the fact that they don’t get to fly off and live a life in the wild. This picture shows the rare ‘Bustless Smiler’, (unique to these islands) in spring time breeding plumage.



Below is a picture of the very common ‘bearded ladybird’, notice the beautiful dark eyes, the thick neck and pointed beak. A natural to these islands and North Africa, the ‘Beardie’, as more commonly known, is normally seen together with its much larger mother, sharing some tasty morsel like a kebab or cheese burger.


The Maltese Falcon is synonymous with ancient tales of chivalry and all that goes with delivering chocolates to ladies who look like they never eat them. The bird was actually given annually as a form of appeasement to the Maltese from their oppressive neighbours.



The Bald Eagle was once a common sight but alas, due to the destruction of its habitat, is only seen during festive periods such as the Mdina pageant . This example is obviously kept for breeding purposes only as its overweight and unshaven. You can see the killer instinct in its eye though.











An eight month old, short eared owl, bred in captivity.


Whilst in town the other day I was looking at an expensive book that detailed the 2007 breeding results of the known birds in the Island of Malta and its smaller sibling, Gozo, to the north. The contrast was incredible between the common birds that we are familiar with in our gardens back in the UK and less well known varieties that visit these shores. For example, Flycatcher, 27,000 pairs known to have bred successfully. Starling, 2, yes, two! The story is no better for the Robin or most of the songbirds. Anything that makes its home around humans has been wiped out completely. The only exception is the Sparrow and the shitty city Pigeon. Oh, I did see a Seagull.

We have not yet travelled very far from the centre of Valletta and I would hope to see more of our feathered friends as we get into the countryside. Watch this space......

At an average of £1,000,000 per metre, the super yacht industry seems to be making the most of the recession. This ‘yacht’ was still being commissioned, delivery mileage only. Try Googling ‘Indian Empress’, you might find some details of this grotesque phallic extension... Still can’t land a helicopter on it so it’s not all that grand. Why the five satellite domes?

Easter Island

The Arab world has given us up for Easter and we have sailed east to the Italian owned Island of Lampadusa, a small haven of peace and tranquillity, in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. Our choices were limited where we were in Mahdia as they do not celebrate the festival that is so important to us; The start of the Moto GP season! Ahhh! Valantino Rossi!

Leaving Tunisia was necessary as we had used up our patience and desire to do any more travelling in said country. There were many more places that we would have liked to see but these pleasures will have to wait for another time...... perhaps. For now, we can enjoy a cold beer in a bar, overlooking the port, while the testosterone fuelled locals fly up and down the dock, racing their tricked up hatchbacks and stink wheeled scooters. You know your back in Europe.

Has anyone outside of Italy heard of Lampedusa? Of course not! It’s like the world has no idea where the Isle of Wight is. Just so you can picture it, Lampedusa is 100miles west of Malta, below Sicily. It has become the number one location for desperate Africans, hoping to make a better life for themselves in Europe. Every week, boatloads of bedraggled asylum seekers/illegal immigrants are rescued from the stolen RIB’s (or whatever they are escaping on), by the Italian Navy and brought to Lampadusa to be processed. The locals are not happy with the situation and it appears that there is no solution to the problem; at least, if there is a solution, it’s not working. The poor but fortunate survivors are re-clothed in check shirts and shipped to Sicily for an education in western democracy and welfare. Good old tax payers. It’s ironic that at one time we used to chain them together and drag them to our countries to abuse them, now they come of their own free will.




For an isolated atoll, Lampedusa is thriving. Predominantly on subsidised fishing and ‘tourism’ as agriculture was not viable after they cut down the entire tree population and the soil blew away. The Hotel business is great if you are ‘in’ with the boys in blue. The other immigrants are the Police from Italy; here to make sure that the rioting ‘blacks’ don’t get too near the locals. I’ve not seen this many coppers since Arthur Scargill gave the Met’ as much overtime as they could possibly squander, beating up the miners. (don’t get me started!)

I met the skipper of a Freighter that makes regular trips to Africa, exporting fish from the local farm. It’s a lucrative market and one that makes good money from what we could see of the business.



The ferry from Palermo also drops off two 40 foot trailers to be filled with fish from the farm, twice a week.

The boat was originally from Lerwick but the English captain had not been back home for years, preferring to fight his way through the warm Med’ than rough it in the North Sea.

When the ferry arrives, it’s like all the island comes to the dock to collect goods or send some back to Sicily. All the fruit and veg, the building materials, toys for the kids, scooters, trees, you name it, it’s on the ferry. As in Africa the trucks are on the stops with the loads they are carrying, piled so high they can hardly get inside the boat. The locals do the same with their three wheeled Piagio pickups; in Lampedusa there are no rules. The police are busy having a coffee or working out in the hotel gym, they don’t care if you have three people on your scooter, none of them wearing any protection.

The dogs here are quite different from Africa or Europe in that they are all so friendly. Instead of trying to bite your leg off, they all want a fuss! This Critter sister was sitting outside the shop when we walked past, she came up for a stroke and then followed us back to the boat and sat on the dock for half an hour waiting to come aboard. She was too fat for me, I like my Bitches a bit thinner.... We had a couple of ‘strays’ follow us round the town for a while, they lay on the floor of the coffee shop while we chilled out, waiting for us to move on. The guy’s looking after the place took no notice of the great big Alsatian looking brute and the fluffy Labrador, taking up floor space. Dogs are OK but smoking inside is still a No No, those guys have to go outside. What a good setup....



Gay and I took a walk round the airport perimeter that ends just above us at the high point of the island. They have a couple of flights arrive and depart every day and the odd military plane comes in. It’s a great place to come and spot Birds, not just the ones on scooters but the feathered variety. They migrate from Africa to Europe and drop off for a bit of a rest. At least they don’t get shot out of the sky the moment they arrive like they do in Malta, bastards!

Gay saw a Golden Oriole, we have Spanish Sparrows, Sardinian Warblers, Yellow footed Gulls, Pipits’ and finches, to name but a few of those that I can identify. They say there used to be wild boar here in the 1800’s but all we’ve seen is a few rabbits chewing on the multitude of wild herbs. Sadly the same blight that has affected the date palm in morocco has taken its toll here too and most of the large Palms that were abundant are but stumps, cut off at ground level.

When we arrived on Tuesday night it was difficult to see the entrance of the port as there was so much back light from the surrounding buildings obscuring the navigation lights. The full moon made the water shimmer and highlighted the peaks and troughs as we motored at full speed to get through them. We did not see the fishing boat smashed up on the rocks till the next day, still being pounded by the relentless waves. The story goes that the Skipper fell asleep? No one died. The fish delivery boat is fighting its way in behind the wreck.



Latest update..... Following the atrocious conditions that have been pounding Lampedusa since Saturday, the fishing boat has been washed off the rocks and has disappeared completely!

We got warning of a big low pressure front moving northeast from Libya on Friday so when the wind picked up during the night we decided we had better get away from the harbour wall and find a secure fix inside the ferry docking area. The locals were all trying to make their fishing boats safe by moving them away from the wall and double anchoring them to the available lines. Sadly for us, this area is too shallow so we had to pick up a line used for one of the trawlers.

Our anchor had been down since we arrived and seemed to be holding well so I left it. I put another long line from the bow and dropped all the other dock lines so we drifted out, off the wall. Still not close enough to pick up the trawler line so another line was attached to the dock line and we moved to where we could pick the line up. It was a massive piece of hawser and looked strong enough to hold a battle ship. I double roped it to the bow so we now had three fixes, the hawser to starboard, the anchor forward and a long line to the shore. By this time, about 9.30am, the wind was building from the south west and big waves from Libya were charging into the port.

There is no breakwater outside so the first thing in their path is the wall of blocks that protects the new fishing harbour and the navy boats. No chance!
They just flew over the top of the wall, straight into the navy boats, it must have been like living under a waterfall. The poor guys were in their storm gear trying to secure everything on deck and keep the deluge from getting inside. These pictures were taken whilst I could still get outside the boat. Within another hour the wind was blowing force 10 and gusting stronger. I have never been in such a fierce storm and we were getting hammered.

The noise of the wind alone was bad enough but seeing 25 foot tall breaking waves roaring past us only 100 feet away was alarming, to say the least. To add to the misery the waves were coming over the ferry wall (above left is the ferry wall, opposite the breakwater) forming new waves in front of us then pitching us up in the air like a plastic duck in a bath. The anchor chain was tied off before the winch to take the strain off it but the two pieces of 8mm sheet cord snapped like cotton under the strain. The winch was then being ripped off the deck and it was a complicated and desperate task to remove the load from it, bearing in mind it was blowing 60knots, raining and the deck was jumping up and down like a demented space hopper. I fixed three bridles to the chain and tied them back to the shroud plates and the toe rail. I then fixed another piece of chain with shackles back to another shroud plate. Every time we got hit the smaller chain would flack against the deck and the hawser ropes would squeal through the fairlead. It was so mad we got our valuables in the Grab bag in case we had to abandon Christina Lee...

In hindsight, we were lucky. We got ourselves off the wall with enough time to prepare for the worst of the weather and managed to keep ourselves fixed. Others were not so lucky. From the deck I can see four sunken fishing boats and another washed up on the beach. We have yet to get back to the shore and survey the rest of the port for damage.

Don’t ever think that living on a yacht is like one long holiday..... its lots of short ones, interspersed with times when you wish you were someplace else...

......All calm now and the wind has dropped. Might be time to get a stern line to the shore and go and have a few deserved beers..............



Till the next time.

El Jem AD230

What better than a day out with friends to visit a place of slaughter? Kent and Anja with little Maja, (1yr) in her backpack and Surprise, surprise, we meet our other friends from Yasmine Marina, Andy, Gayle and their sprog Luwkas, (4yrs) in the street outside the colosseum.


The Romans had some clever ideas when it came to keeping the peace; ” do as we say or we’ll feed you to our Lions and make a spectacle of you”. Seems to have been an order the locals here were obliged to agree with, along with everyone else the invaders came across. El Jem is the third largest of its kind in the Roman Empire and sits atop a small hill overlooking the olive plains that stretch for miles. The town itself is nothing remarkable, it now caters for coach loads of tourists who are dropped off at regular times during the day to be jumped on by the locals trying to get them inside their souvenir shops or tacky restaurants selling fish and chips. You might be tempted to have a ride on a Camel? Some post cards perhaps? No, not today thank you.



We were lucky, it was a windy but sunny Sunday and there appeared to be only a few coach loads of tourists, Japanese and Germans mostly and some French. As usual the Japanese swarmed all over the structure in 10 min then jumped back into their coach, cameras full of great pictures of a place they could never have really appreciated. We saw them again in the museum, same process, gone in 10 min, off to the next photo opportunity. Never can understand why they come all this way? We spent about 45 min wandering about, peering through arches and trying to imagine what a full house of 30,000 bloodthirsty Romans would have sounded like while they waited for the next spectacle. The local boys use the remains as a playground, I’m not sure if they have to pay the 6Dhr entrance fee. They get their kicks by goading each other to jump off sections of the walls or climb up some part of the crumbling structure like trendy city kids do in downtown New York. They have little fear or sense and obviously no respect for the relic. Sadly guards are not part of the entry price or they don’t work on Sundays? After 1,700 years of abuse, what damage could they do?






The original structure is oval with seating from the pit, up to the Gods. Building an entertainment facility on this scale takes a hell of a lot of stone and several dozen hammers.



This is one of the most difficult to build as it has no natural walls to start from, i.e. a hill side or wadi. To complicate matters there was no natural stone for 30km so they had to cart the stuff by hand before they had even carved the first block. Fit blokes them slaves. It goes without saying that the stonework is brilliant, no need to use cement, the weight of the blocks and the way they are cut and placed gives the whole structure massive strength. Not having any corners must help.



The locals are trying to rebuild parts of the walls but the skills have been long lost through time. As stone was not available locally, the colluseum was to become a quarry for the construction of the town, long after the place had been sacked several times and blown up in the 19th century.






As part of our entry fee we had access to the museum, half a mile down the road. Its site is on the remains of a huge villa that has been excavated and sympathetically reconstructed in the style of the time to give one a feel for what it might have been like. Some of the mosaics have been left where they were found and have lasted better than axeminster carpet in Sandringham. They have several cases of stone ware and ceramics, some metal work and the obligatory headless statues dotted about.




What is most impressive are the mosaics that have been dug up, restored and fixed to the walls like they have in the Bardo in Tunis. Gay and I were of the same opinion that the quality was better here than in the Bardo and the signage was in English too. They were mostly complete and had been dug up in three metre sections so the damage was minimal.







It’s not possible to appreciate the work involved when seen as a picture but if you ever get the chance, come and have a look. The floor designer in 3c.ad. had books full of designs to choose from, when you were having your new summer palace built they would adapt the images to suit the tastes of the customer. There are similar themes throughout, blood, lust, animals, fruit, fish etc. Some of the faces were quite bizarre, rarely with beards and eyes that were out of proportion and misaligned. It was as if they were all inbred! As you can see in the picture on the left, Homer Simpson was alive and well and having a ball in El Jem.

We wandered about the original floor plan outside for half an hour, the original walls raised only a foot, just to give one an idea of the room sizes and layout. Sadly the town is beginning to encroach and new builds are now up to the perimeter.

We now look forward to the magnificence of Leptis Magna in Libya......

Tunisian Transport

I thought it might be amusing to take a few pictures of the local’s modes of transport. Some of you may have little interest in mechanical things; they just make a lot of noise and smell. Well that would be a fair assumption based on the general state of repair of most of the vehicles here. One must not forget that availability of spare parts in countries like Tunisia has always been sporadic and expensive, it’s not like you can nip down to Halfords or German and Swedish for a cheap pattern part and then have some ham fisted halfwit, fit it with a monkey wrench and a hammer. If your family were fortunate enough to have had an old pickup, passed down through the last three generations, chances are that that it was a French Peugeot 404 or possibly a Renault 4 van. Keeping it on the road/track was never easy.

Nothing is thrown away here; they collect stuff like English scrap metal farmers do, just left out the back of the yard in case of future need. It’s a shame the greedy bastards at home didn’t cash in last year ‘cos the scrap market will be a long time coming back! Thankfully the Ministry of Transport are not welcome in the developing world so cutting two vehicles in half and welding the good bit’s back together is still an option. That scrap combined harvester you see in the UK is put to good use here in Africa. Massey Ferguson 135’s are old but they can fix them easy.


As for two wheels, well, now we’re talking. The French have been the principle donors of Mopeds. That is a two wheeled contraption that can be pedalled if necessary. The ‘new’ Peugeot 103 is all the rage if you can stump up 1500 dhr (£850).

The Mobylette/motobeccane from the 50’s and 60’s is still doing the rounds in various states of disrepair. My Mother had an equivalent when I was in shorts, the Raleigh Runabout. The Chinese are trying to make inroads buy flooding the market with small wheel scooters. They are totally useless on the dirt roads and can’t be repaired when they break. Parts are difficult to get even in the UK.





In town they work ok, like the Italian Vespa or Piagio that withstood years being tested on European roads to ensure they can stand the beating they get in Africa. Scooters are better for carrying goods or children on the foot plate but hopeless for towing a trailer.









A good compromise is the Piaggio Van. Still only a scooter but with a cab and three wheels. Keeps your stuff dry and you can carry no end of vegetables, bricks, fish, seaweed or whatever.
Popular with ice-cream sellers in Italy. Mahdia is not like most Tunisian towns as they have a thriving fishing industry plus a tourist market brining in lots of Euro’s. The cash abundance is obvious in the number of new Renault Clio’s and VW Golf’s. We have seen BMW X5’s too!




Morocco relies almost entirely on Mercedes 200/250 series for Taxi duty but here its old French or Italian Bangers with a few GM/Vauxhall Astra’s for good measure.As is customary, they are all painted yellow like those in NY. Those cabbies that buy new cars for the business have to have them painted but they only paint the outside so when you get in the inside is still in its original colour. They don’t mask them up very well either so you can see the edges all round the panels, still it won’t be long before they have a prang and they need repainting...





The trucks are in pretty good shape despite being so old, lots of Italian 7.5 ton tippers or flatbeds. The loading capacity is limited only to your ability to fasten the goods on to the back, be it sheep or cows or even horses. Fruit and veg is a favourite for flattening the springs, stacked so high you would think they would fall over at the first corner. The Police are oblivious to the mayhem, standing on every roundabout they watch these death traps crawling round slowly to avoid falling on some poor sod on a moped nipping round the outside.




This poor chap is one of the last of a long generation of heavy goods hauliers still operating in Mahdia. I think his day has been and gone as I’ve yet to see the scruffy nag with any goods on his trailer? His master parks him in the shade of a Eucalyptus tree then sit’s in the cafe all day waiting for work.

Tunisia and Beyond (according to Smiffy)

So what of the Eastern Riff? Over a thousand miles of azure, white capped sea and probably twice as many miles if one was to walk the dramatic shore line (scuba gear required). We have sailed across the top of Africa from the cosmopolitan craziness of Tangier via the alluring and as yet unseen Algiers to touristy Tabarka; through some of the most unexplored and misunderstood parts of the Mediterranean. Though Muslim from west to east, the cultures obviously differ relevant to the foreign influence. The Moroccans have had a gutful of the French, Portuguese and Spanish: powerful and resourceful invaders of their land over the last few hundred years and each occupier has left it’s mark on the country. Algeria has finally kicked out the French colonialists in the not too distant past so they are still trying to get into a rhythm and keep the fundamentalists quiet, though it would appear unsuccessfully, whilst the Tunisians have gained independence from France and embraced the west as the most ‘democratic’ of the ‘Arabrican’ trio.

It’s not hard to see the effects of French interest on this eastern section of North Africa over the last hundred years. It has chucked loads of cash at this country, building roads, railways, huge political buildings, hotels and residential dwellings in the classic style with balconies, wooden shutters and frescoes, all very ornate and in some cases, vulgar. The towns are mostly in grid fashion and the sense of structure and planning is evident throughout. It’s like Milton Keynes. The wide avenues with lots of Eucalyptus trees and water features lead to some great symbol of power, to make the point that before us there was chaos. That’s not to say that before Tunisia was colonised by the French, there was no formal structure. Previous town planners were careful to arrange the cities central hub, the Medina, so the wealthy lived in the centre or at the top and the skilled artisans were based around them. The silversmiths (Jews), the silk merchants, hat makers and other wealthy traders and service providers taking the prime locations and as the trades became more noisy or smelly, like the blacksmiths and tanners, these lower class businesses were kept out on the fringes of the cities, a bit like second hand car sales. Tunis is a classic example of the form.

Tabarka, our first port of call to these spectacularly mountainous shores was once a Genoese fortification but has since grown into an international holiday destination for the cheap sun seekers of Europe. A visitor to the Castle today is met by the caretaker who keeps a watchful eye out for likely punters from his lofty lookout in the tower, a male Esmeralda without the ugly French bloke. Spotting us he quickly ran down and met us. He led us round the outside of the decaying relic, cluttered with scaffold and signs warning of imminent collapse. We were then escorted quickly round the empty building sight, snapping pics as we went and up into the lighthouse tower so we could see the candle. It was a bit cramped but we took some pictures of the harbour with Christina Lee sitting against the wall, then legged it out of the place before we were overcome with the smell of piss. Could have been Blarney Castle.

Tabarka with its golf course and quad bikes, pony rides, pizzas and pubs, could not be more different from its westerly neighbour, Algeria only 4Km away. It does have charm though? There are some very desirable residences still here, very French with pitched roofs and lovely ochre tiles, blue shutters, very Provencal. We choose to ignore the tacky shops with shifty proprietors, constantly on the hunt for rich foreigners to hijack, ‘just come look?’ ‘Where you from, ingles, German?’ The stock in trade is sourced locally as the margins will obviously be greater. For example:- Pine cones and Cork. Take one un-opened cone with stalk, paint white with a few dabs of black in the right place, paint the beak/stalk red and stick two bits of wire into the bottom for feet and voila! It could be an Oystercatcher or a Stork or even an Avocet if you excuse the bill? Take the said ‘bird’ and stick it with its friends into to the hollowed out piece of Cork trunk and you’ve an ornament you can sell by the bucket load! Or not?

Sadly the other free resource is the local red coral that is harvested from the sea bed just off shore and sold on every corner of the town and by mobile salesmen on the beach and around the port. The Coral boats all have recompression chambers on deck. I’m yet to fathom out (excuse the pun) if they send the guy to the bottom, some 120 metres, like an Tunisian Jacque Cousteau, then recompress them on the surface to squeeze the nitrogen out slowly thus avoiding the benz and to save time and Nitrox? It looks like a perilous job but the area has such good water quality, dive operations are becoming the lucrative market with at least five in the port alone. Again, each dive boat has a recomp’ tank on deck which I find rather worrying? They all use gas and air mix for deep diving so it’s not for the faint hearted. Once I’ve done some investigation as to the safety record I might give it a go in the spring but not 120 metres.

Unemployment is a fact of life for the average man or boy if unfortunate enough to have been born outside of the regular job for life professions i.e. fishing or retail (or coral diving). As a result, ‘people watching’ is a national pastime and groups of males are to be found everywhere, clutching their mobile phones, idly watching the world go by. They are themselves also fascinating to study as they have mannerisms quite unlike ‘men of the west’. The initial greeting between the males can be anything from a few words of Arabic, a clasp of the hand or touch of the shoulder, to kisses on both cheeks, right hands joined (French influence?) The older males will stand and hold the hand of the other whilst they chat, sometimes touching the left arm with the other hand. They are very touchy-feely and give the impression that they are very sincere. If in a group, a new arrival will shake the hand of all those seated. Even when they argue, the need to hold hands is ever present. The Tunisians, like the Moroccans, are proud and honourable people and they take umbrage to those who show disrespect. They are a hard race also, having had to endure being governed by foreigners for many years but they show no resentment towards us. We are a source of income after all.

The women are not so easily observed as they are usually at home slaving over a luke warm hearth or out in the field working, wrapped up like Mrs Tiggy Winkle, up to their knocking knees in cow shit and bent double, possibly with a child on their back. That role is the same throughout. From the centre of Morocco to the hills of Tabarka and all places between, the women do the graft while the men sit and chat. The women are much more reserved as the culture dictates and are less likely to catch your eye and say ‘bonjour’ as would a male. Despite Islam the younger generation Tunisians are much more ‘advanced’. I’m not convinced that wearing cheap, copied sports clothing or some ill fitting piece of Chinese ‘fashion’, stating a terribly ill conceived one liner is really ‘advanced’ but that’s what’s offered. They hang around the internet ‘café’, smoking and texting, much like the displaced youth of Europe. What’s nice is that the young ladies don’t all wear the veil and allow their hair to be exposed. They have very soft features and are mostly quite attractive. None have yet been engaged into a conversation with Gay and I. The males love to take guesses as to where Gay originates, ‘you Japanese, no? Korea? Vietnam?’ They never get it and when told have usually no idea where Myanmar is. Near Thailand!

The ‘Capitainaire’ of Tabarka port, ‘Sherrife’ is an interesting chap; he has his fingers in many pies here. Not only does he organise us Yachties and the Campervans that come to stay along the harbour wall, he also has a dive operation in the port. He speaks Arabic, French and German and tries to speak English. He has a permanent toothless grin on his face and is very friendly to all. He knows everyone in the port and is a useful source of information and probably a great gossip! As space is tight, boats have to be rafted up alongside each other, Sherrife is very adept at shuffling them about as required leaping about like a Venetian punter He comes aboard our boat when it’s necessary to shuffle them and apologises the whole time for the inconvenience.

The mountains behind Tabarka are famous for several reasons, one of which is the production of cork. A factory in the outskirts of town is responsible for processing this fragile crop, only harvested from the trees every nine years. They have huge piles of the stuff stacked up in the yard, probably waiting to be turned into floor tiles as the wine industry now looks for cheaper alternatives for its stoppers. Wild Boar are also free to roam throughout the forests, feeding on the acorns the cork trees produce and at the same time ploughing up the soft loamy ground in search of suitable fodder. We could see the furrows during our search for the local mushroom delicacy this week. Shooting the Boar is also very popular and hunting these elusive hogs is big business, lets hope supply keeps up with demand. We took a bus into the Mountains with our French boat neighbour who knows the region very well. The road is as good as any in Europe and climbs to about 900m before it levels off at Ain Draham, where the last of the lions and leopards were shot by colonial hunters, in the late 1800’s. Quite what they do for a living now is beyond me but business was booming in the tea shop. I will take my Mountain bike up there this week if it stops raining... ...