MAFIA

After the a good nights sleep in our "glamp tents" the following morning Mark and I could be found sitting on the beach watching the drowning duo and shark bait along with Eben and Ryan sailing off into the distance. Our deck hands had not arrived and sunlight was burning. While I am keen to have an adventure the idea of crossing open ocean without crew unnerved me. I did not want to set sail without some experienced on board, so we discussed with the rescue boat our needs. A well respected sailor was watching the boats leave and after some negotiation he and his friend agreed to come with us to Mafia.

It was a pleasant day’s sail the new skipper, an older gentleman, who we had nothing but praise for his seamanship abilities. His navigation skills were beyond belief, with no compass no charts and no land marks he set the perfect course for Mafia. To begin with I checked his course on our GPS on a half hour basis, but soon realised he knew where he was going so Mark dug out the fishing lines, unfortunately nothing was biting. The wind did pick up in the early afternoon and our skipper reefed the sails which led to Eben and Ryan catching us and shooting past at a good rate of knots. They ran into trouble later and never reached Mafia that day, but spent the night on a small deserted island to fix their boat once again.

As we reached Mafia, the drowning duo and shark bait had sailed round a reef marked on the charts while our skipper sailed right over the top allowing us to pull up on the beach a few minutes in front of them, bragging rights to the Salty Seamen.

Mafia

Mafia was a compulsory check in, and as we arrived we were told the fleet had become too spread out and a race hold was put in place for the next 24 hours. We also had out first casualties of the race. Marcus who had tried to sail solo and then hired a skipper had finally thrown in the towel and was waiting for the Scottish pair Colin and Fraser to join there crew. The young American team also decided enough was enough with a parting comment of; "we're too young to die.” and were gone.

The Scottish Lads - Having a spot of trouble

I believe the Aussies also had troubles on this leg and were towed for a few hours arriving on the beach in the middle of the night, while the Scott’s lads had returned to Songa Songa after hitting more trouble.

On Sunday we were met by our new crew members, who after some discussion had agreed to come with us to the finish of the race on Pemba Island, on the condition they could repair, renew and upgrade our boat. Thanks to Dylan a new boom was found and installed, holes were filled and ropes were renewed. Then it was off to the local town to find entertainment and a bed for the night which was sorely needed after the mattress on the floor of the bar we had the previous night.

Due to Marks fantastic sense of direction we found a wonderful guest house with on suite facilities and air-conditioning and a bar for lunch. Luxury! It wasn't long before other teams found the bar and were told of the guest house. The Vikings, the Aussies and Ryan and Eben who arrived that morning, all joined us in the guest house. The dinner menu consisted of “food” and after a three hour wait while the hosts disappeared to purchase the food, and cook the food, and finally we were served with fish and chips. By which time of course the party was in full swing, all things considered it was quite a night.

Glamping and Whores in Songa Songa

After an uneventful day of sailing we arrived at Songa Songa, while I say uneventful we are talking about Adventure 9, or its unofficial name the Poseidon Plunge.

An uneventful day of sailing entails getting up at 5am to find we were 30mins too late for the tide, enlisting the help of a group of workers to help push the boat into the sea. Any later and we would have been stuck high and dry until the tide came back in. We had the wind at our backs so it was a straight reach for half the 40 mile distance. A slight mishap during the changing of the sail setting, half-filled the boat with water, but there was no capsizing for us. We stopped on a sandbank for some quick relief and carried on, passing “the drowning duo and shark bate” who were busy retying their boat back together as their out riggers had come off. They were doing this while treading water in the middle of the ocean. Apparently it took then 3hrs! 

Songa Songa

So in comparison to past days Mark and I had an uneventful days sailing. Songa Songa is a paradise island in keeping with its name. As we arrived we encountered Eben opening his bar in the lagoon of turquoise sea with white sand. The setting was magnificent; a predator was chasing a shoal of fish which were taking evasive action by jumping out of the water. This was probably the best bar in the world, the vodka was delicious even if the coke was warm. 

Mark set off to find cold mixers and I took the snorkel to see if the universe was going to supply seafood for dinner, it didn’t?

Upon Marks return he had found not only more coke which was cold, but a camp for the gas plant on the island. He had spoken with the project manager and had organised a couple of tents for us. They came with air conditioning, on suite facilities and a patio overlooking the Indian Ocean. We were glamping! Hot water and warm beds, the universe was looking after us after all. 

A trip into the local village and a bar was found and a couple of cold beers enjoyed. We were informed the establishment had no food but with a little persuasion they agreed to see what they could do. I bought the young lady who was helping us a beer for her trouble, she smiled nicely and after sending one of the other girls off for food, and she came and joined us at our table.

Jasmine and I enjoying a Cold Beer

Now my Swahili is non-existent but it soon became apparent I had made a friend for the evening, as Jasmine had taken an exceptional shine to me, all for the price of a beer, I had a look around the establishment we had entered. There were a larger group than one would expect of girls in the bar, and a number of rooms in the corner which seemed to be available by the hour. We had stumbled across a bordello. Certainly on the island for the gas plant workers whose tents we were going to sleep in that night.

After eating the food which turned out to be a local delicacy, a chip omelette, we headed back to the camp for a restful evenings sleep. The previous night we had dined with Princes and tonight with whores, this adventure was just more and more interesting, what would the universe serve up for us tomorrow?

Two Shipwrecks and a Prince All in a Days Adventure

We were woken after sleeping the night on Warren’s kitchen floor to the sound of African coffee being made by our host. It was 5:30am and still dark, but we desperately needed to catch the tide, so after a quick thank you to our host we headed out to once again set sail in the hope of rounding the headland, which had beaten us the previous day. Ryan and Eben had also risen with us and with their broken boon fixed were heading for the open ocean.

Dawn had just risen as we set sail, we had the tide and were making good headway another 30 mins and we would be out, when suddenly we heard a crack, the sail went astray. Our boon had snapped, we quickly lowered the boom and gathered the sail into the boat. We were at the mercy of the tide and being swept onto the coral reef, fortunately with the tide on the turn we managed to beach the boat without any further damage, or so we thought.

Shipwrecked with a snapped boom

Still not 8am and shipwrecked on a coral reef. Not to be out done we watched from the safety of the beach as Ryan and Eben boat suddenly sunk below the waters while still in the channel. A fishing boat came to their aid and towed a submerged boat back to the beach we had just left. We later discovered their bow had just come to pieces leaving a gaping hole in their boat which sunk below the surface immediately.

Repaired Boom

With the help of steel wire, ti-wraps, rope and fishing line, it took a couple of hour to jerry-rig the boom, leaving us high and dry awaiting high tide. Four hours later after consuming numerous coconuts, we recruited the help of a couple of local fishermen and pushed the boat over the reef and into the lagoon beyond. Not so much around the headland but through it, with the wind at our back and the tide in our favour it would be all plain sailing from here.

Then the pins holding the rudder to the boat tore lose, we had to let the sail flap in the wind and allow the tide to take us, while trying to steer using a paddle. We were travel fast and in the right direction just very little control of the exact location we would finish.

Second Shipwreck Beach

After 5kms or so, the tide and wind blew us on to a beach. A gentleman, we later discovered his name to be Gigi came and asked if he could help. We had arrived at a closed hotel but Gigi was the owner’s brother who was staying for a couple of weeks with his wife. He made a phone call and they found us a room for the evening with beds and a hot shower. Another phone call was made and arrangements were made for the rudder to be fixed.

After a shower Gigi had the bar opened and for a cold beer and food was ordered, his sister Gladys arrived and we set about a memorable evening, drinks were drunk, friendship toasted, and we all had “one more round for no reason what so ever”

Gigi, Gladys, Paul, & Mark “One more round, for no reason what’s so ever”

As I place my head on a soft pillow that night, I thought what a great adventure so far. After the second day of the race we had managed to travel 3km from the start line, and were not last, had been shipwrecked twice and met a prince, what would the next 497km of the race bring us?

Did I mention Gigi is the Crown Prince of Burundi, now a republic, and told some fascinating tales. 

The day I was shipwrecked not once but twice in the Indian Ocean and ended the day eating and drinking with a prince, one for the grandchildren, I think? 

A True Story

An incident yesterday has made me look at what wonders there are in the world so I thought I’d share with you a true story, which happened to me.

There are a few things that I have seen in the course of my travels that have made me sit up and wonder. The pilot whales in the Atlantic and the French man who waved his hands and took my pain away to name a couple I have encountered, but it’s the story of two little birds who had the hearts of eagles I want to acquaint you with today.

My partner and I were living in a small village in Western Provence; South Africa with three cats and a beautiful view over the river to the mountains beyond. It had a stope to the front of the house with a large table and chairs with a braai attached to the wall of the house. Our outside inside room as my partner used to describe it.

We would sit outside in the evenings watching the sun go down and throwing shadows over the mountains. I’d light a fire and have a laker chop and a dop “Life don’t get much better.”

One spring morning, a couple of years ago I came out to find the beginning of a swallow’s nest being constructed on the braai chimney. Swallow’s build their nests out of mud which they carry in their mouths all chewed up then spit it out onto the wall they mold it into a round shape with a funnel at the end, probably so their chicks don’t fall out when their away from the nest. After some discussion regarding the placement of the nest with the three cats, they don’t like poached eggs, I thought it best to discourage the two swallows from building it on the chimney and scraped the beginnings of their home off the wall.

A day later I had a visit from the two swallows. They both perched on the top of one of the high backed chairs opposite me and gave me what can only be described as “a rite good tongue lashing”. Well the bloke just stood there. If I understood her correctly she was telling me she was pregnant and this was the best place for their home and why couldn't they build their home on this stope, you don’t own the place. The bloke just stood there totally embarrassed and looked away with a stance that said “look mate, see what I have to put up with, have a heart”

I first explained about the cats; “Cats can’t fly” she tweeted. “Ok Ok” I agreed “but you can’t build your home on the chimney your chicks would cook.” “We will build it off the wall” she conceded “we’ll start tomorrow” she stated “OK” I agreed. The bloke look at me nodded his head as if to say cheers mate and they were off.

 The following day they started building their home again and this time they left an inch of space between the chimney and the back of their nest.

That is ridiculous; you can’t have had a conversation with two swallows regarding the construction of their nest. Why did they leave an inch between the chimney and the back of their nest, the nest I destroyed was on the chimney. I don’t believe you can have a conversation with two birds either, but it happened to me, so what can I say.

They built their nest and raised two chicks that year and they came and showed them off to us prior to going overseas, we named them Poached and Boiled.

The following spring they were back, said hello and when straight into their home, watched intensively by the pussy cats licking their lips. We left that house soon after, they were right we didn't own it, we were renting.

It’s their home now I will visit the house at Christmas and see if they returned to their home for a third year?

The Jungles of Panama

It’s been a while since my last blog and I have done a fair bit of travelling since I thought I would let write down what it’s like for me living in a third world country in the tropics. Not the usual type of adventure I write about but an adventure none the less. I am in the jungles of Panama working on the construction of a dam. The construction site employs nearly 1,000 people on a daily basis, seven days a week. There is a small town build up around the camp offering the usual services you find where a 1,0000 single men away from home. Not that I live in the camp. The dam is the sixth dam on a river which runs very close to the border with Costa Rica where on occasions I have pop over for lunch.

I have been housed on a beach in a condo with all the modern first world amenities, air conditioning, dish washer, fridge, range etc. It has three bedrooms and I have an on suite bathroom with the king size bed. The most famous sportsman in Panama is a baseball player who plays for the New York Yankees it’s his condo that the company rents for me. It is in a beach club complex with a 4/5 star hotel next door with heliport, where I have an account. At weekend the rich and famous come to play in the hotel. There are lots of beautiful young ladies with older gentlemen, whom I can only assume are their fathers. I tend to have breakfast there on a Sunday, which is my day off to admire the view. It is no more than 50 yards to the sea and less than 10yds to the 25mt swimming pool from my balcony which has a big gas fired BBQ on it. The company supply me with a 4x4 SUV to get to work and back which takes 50mins. The office is in the jungle at the site of the construction project. I live 30 minutes outside the second biggest city in Panama called San Jose David where there is a Western supermarket pick up supplies for the following week. In the supermarket I found cans of Boddingtons which I bought the last eight, I do hope they get some more, life will me hell with a can of English beer. San Jose David and the road I take to the site, the Pan American highway is the main route for the drug cartels use carry their drugs to their main market in the USA. There are regular patrols and stops at random by lots of police, soldiers or custom officials, I am never sure which. While my Spanish is improving I tend not to use it when speaking to young men with guns. There was a long traffic jam one evening heading home when I arrived at the cause the police were there in force as there had been a gang land shooting on the highway. They had dragged the body of the “hit” off the road and left it laying by the side so all the rubber necker’s were having a good look, which was the cause of the delay. In typical London style I thought it was a little inconvenience for them to go shooting and killing people during rush hour. The Construction Union called a national strike last month so it was very peaceful once I got to site. There was the minor irritation of driving through the picket lines but the security staff always turned out carrying pump action shotguns so there was never any serious trouble. The security men all carry shotguns as I said the site is very close to the boarder and occasionally during the night people and mules wonder through the area to cross over the boards. I think they must be after the duty free. As I write this a tropical down pour is falling from the sky. It’s the rainy season, which means a tropical storm of gigantic proportions appears every afternoon between three and four o’clock. I have never witnessed a deluge of this magnitude before It can mean not leaving the site until it stops. The owner of the dam was in my office last week and the rains started and he couldn’t leave as a river was running outside the front door and his office was only 10mts away. Of course the electricity and internet goes off for a while during the storm. However in Panama there is no need to worry about a little water from the sky. It’s the earthquake’s that make the place interesting. I always like a good knee trembler and here you just never know when the next one is coming!

A ball at the back of the line!

A meeting with a couple of old rugby buddies started me reminiscing of past glories on the field. There’s an old saying the older I get the better I was. So a little story from my past.

I played rugby league U18 for Cumbria and received international honours for Norway at rugby union. I played most of my rugby for Guy’s Hospital RFC who were just losing their status as a first class cub when I joined. That said we still had half the fixture list from the golden days, when one Saturday the club’s first team walked out onto the pitch with 15 internationals with the two sub’s on the bench both current international for England.

I remember playing Cambridge University at Grange Road against the likes of Hastings, Smith, Bailey, to name but a few. Marcus Rose the resident English full back was aliened against us. Not that he saw the end of the game. Docs, all nine stone tackled him as he came thumping through the centres. The stretcher came on and off he went, not a bad claim to fame Richard Docker.

My claim is I took a ball off Mick “The Munch” Skinner at the back of the lineout. He is known as one of the hard men of English rugby. The blind side flanker received legendry status during the 1991 world cup finals for his tackle on Marc Cecillon of France. Truly one of the great back row forwards!

On a murky Tuesday evening in south east London we were playing Blackheath – The Club, the oldest fixture between two rugby club’s in the world. For reason’s I don’t recall I was asked to be the third jumper at the back of the lineout. Don’t worry I was assured “We wont throw the ball there.”

The first lineout was a while in coming, when it did I tried to look all of my 5ft 113/4in. as I walked up to the line. I took a look at my opposition and my heart sank. He was 6ft 5ins, although known for his flowing locks; this evening he had a skin head hair cut, muscles bulging through his rugby shirt and was speaking with a Geordie ascent. Mick “The Munch” Skinner. I was in for a pleasant evening.



As planned the ball was thrown straight over the heads of the number two (2) and four (4) jumpers. A quick decision, do I try to contest? Of course not, this was the cream of England, the red rose, he flew into the air as I watched, took the ball cleanly in two hands, perfect. As he returned to terra firma my arm shoot through taking his legs away. He landed on his coccyx, presenting the ball perfectly, but that had to hurt.

Smiling I was off, chasing down the fly half.

The next line out came and I stood against the England hero. To plan once again the ball sailed over the number two (2) and number four (4) jumpers as Mick rose, a splendid sight. I turned, and was hit, I was sailing through the air and then I hit the ground. That hurt! I was lying 10yds from the line out. The Blackheath blind side had come through and knocked me for six. He never said a word as he stood over me, but I got the message, if I tried it again I wouldn’t see the end of the game.

I took the warning. I like to think I am fairly tough, but I have no death wish and I am certainly not suicidal. These boys meant business and had the strength and character to follow it through. No more illegal movement in the air.

Still one has to compete!

Mick took another couple of line outs, with only little opposition. The flank forwards once again became laxest. Mid way though the second half, up he went leaping like a salmon, taking the ball in two hands. As he was returning to earth I jumped. I managed to get my arm though under his armpit and ripped the ball out. I turned and passed it to Docs who was waiting. Mick came down, no ball in sight wondering what had happened. Not robbed more pick pocketed. He went wild; thankfully not with me but with his flankers. I can still here his Geordie curses if I close my eyes.

We came second that evening to Blackheath, not by a huge score, but well beaten. However it is one I will always remember. The night I stole a ball off Mick “The Munch” Skinner!

San Fermin Festival

San Fermin Festival

I switched on the television earlier this week to find the San Ferna festival being shown. A more familiar name is the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona made famous for the English by Hemmingway.

The format is simple, each morning the bulls are run from the outskirts of Pamplona through the streets to the Bull Ring in the centre of the town in preparation for the bull fights in the evening. I assume the organisers thought it best to bring them through the streets early in the morning when most self respecting Spaniards would be tucked up in bed after the festivities of the previous night.

However the Spaniards like to come out late and party to the early hours of the morning. It being no surprise therefore that when the bulls were first run through the streets there were numerous inebriated young men showing off to the fair young ladies. So a tradition began.

Years later and there are hundreds of inebriated young men who race through the streets showing off to their young ladies. There have been deaths a plenty a couple of years earlier to my participation, someone had fallen in the tunnel entering the bull ring, seven (7) people died. It is just as dangerous as it sounds.



Amongst the small group of twenty some things that set out upon the quest were Docs, the Mighty Finn and I. We travelled down in a coach full of antipodeans who had the beer flowing before we left Earls Court and were determined to prove that Pohms couldn’t drink. We were young and it seemed like a good challenge.

36hrs later saw us drinking in Pamplona square looking forward to the following morning. Another full night of drinking and the sun rose, we bleary eyed revellers were ready and waiting as the canon announced the bull were lose. The adrenaline in my body kicked in, I was no longer drunk but alert and running. Where were the bulls? I jogged slowly letting other runners team pass me. The crowds safely on the other side of the fences were roaring, but still no bulls.

Then I saw it ‘the tunnel.’ A double helping of adrenaline, and I ran if my life depended on it, which with the crowd roaring in my ears, I believed it did. Into the tunnel, no stopping now, every man for himself! I ran, Lyford Christy would have chassed my dust. Into the day light and the centre of the ring with hundreds of others, cheering with relief we had made it and were grateful to be alive.

When eventually the bulls arrived a good ten (10) minuets later, the roar from the stadium was deafening. A young man had been speared by a horn from a bull and was been dragged into the arena. A shake of his mighty head and the body of the young man was thrown clear like a doll thrown from a pram. The boy was picked up by the surrounding crowd and taken off to hospital. The bulls carried on straight through the ring and disappeared through a gate at the far side.

My blood was really pumping, I felt I had let the side down, I had not even seen a bull until they arrived in the ring.
The crowd inside the ring were moving towards the gate, I joined them. A chant began Torro, Torro, Torro, I joined in Torro, Torro, Torro. We were standing in front of the gate the bulls had disappeared into and were chanting.

The strangest thing you could ever imagine happened, the crowd sat down!

In front of the gates the bulls had disappeared into the crowd sat. Not wanting to look scared I too sat in front of those gates and chanted. Yelling for the bulls to come out!

Then they did! The gate was opened a bull charged into the seated crowd. Its horns were ploughing through the sand nose in the dirt of the bull ring and charging straight at me.

In the tunnel my imagination gave me tempo. But here in the ring, this was the real thing. That bull charging towards me gave me more adrenaline than I have ever had before or since kicking into my body. I rolled to my right and the bull continued, people behind me were thrown from its path as it charged through. On my feet I watched as the bull decimated the crowd behind me.

Then I was hit. I was somersaulting. I was in the air, I landed, the air knocked from my lungs. I was lying on the sand in a bull ring in Pamplona, at my feet were two big black eyes, two flaring nostrils, snorting and staring at me was an enormous bull. A second bull had been let into the ring!

I learnt later you should lie still and wait, the bull seeing you as no threat would leave you alone. As I said I learnt later. I did what any righteous Barrow boy would do. I kicked it as hard as I could in its big black face! In return it promptly gouged my legs. If the Spanish boys had not grabbed its tail and distracted that animal I would not be walking today. They drew its attention away from me, but not before I took some savage mauling my legs. Bloody was seeping everywhere fortunately they were just flesh wounds.

After thanking the boys I intended to get somewhere the imminent possibility of death was not so high on the agenda. I was hobbling to the edge of the ring with blood running down my legs when I spotted a youth in denims, ripped t-shirt and long hair looking seriously out of place.

The dress code for bull running is white trousers, white dress shirt with a red sash around your waist and a red neckerchief around your neck. With the odd accessory 95% of the crowd adhere to it. I watched this young man wonder around the ring’ looking with intent, until he caught the bull’s eye. The bull charged and man stood.

20yrds, 10yrds, 5yrds and still the youth in jeans the ripped t-shirt and the long hair stood. With the bull only 1yrd from him he jumped. With each hand he grabbed a horn of the bull and he balanced himself over the bulls head as the bull charged through the ring.

The bull was confused! The crowd were confused! I was confused!

After travelling the length of the bull ring balancing on the head of the bull he jumped off to the side. The silence was deafening. Had we all witnessed what we saw?

As one the crowd went into raptures, they cheered the boy. He waved, smiled and left.

Unbelievable! Yes I too had watched in amazement and wonder at what the boy had just completed. I had however failed to watch the bull which was still in the ring charging up behind me. Run? I had just seen a performance on how to handle a bull! I took one look at the bull and for the third time that day I ran as if my life depended on it, and the bull chased. The fence around the ring must be 8ft tall. I got to the top in a single bound and rolled into the arms of the crowd. I was shaking with fear but now I was safe.

That evening as I was having my cuts attended to, I watched myself somersaulting on Spanish national television. No sign of the long haired boy with the ripped t-shirt. I have no idea who he was but he has balls.

The festival lasts for seven (7) days so we returned the following day and the day after but never saw the youth again. When the week was over, awaiting the coach at Calais Docs, Finny and I were having a quite beer, at 8.30am. A couple of the antipodeans walked past looking dejected drinking coffee shaking their heads. We were young and had proven ourselves foolish but there’s nothing like a good challenge.