Dear Diary - Day 14. The Last Post

The clock on the blog has just clicked over to 14 days since we left. Perfect timing...

We are sitting at our kitchen table with a bottle of red wine, which makes a change from the silver baggies that Sims has been drinking from for two weeks, and a large can of Stella Artois from the beer fridge, so for tonight, at least, the magic wristband seems to be working.

The eleven hour flight was painful. The aeroplane seemed to slow down the closer it got to the UK. Then the taxi got stuck in rush hour traffic and seconds turned to minutes and minutes to hours... but eventually we got home with, thanks to our fellow travellers, 1,000 cigarettes. Much obliged chaps! Well played!... Stella Artois, the cat, has chosen to ignore us. That's disenfranchised cats for you.

Although the adventure is over the memories will stay with us forever. I hope that over the past month the blog has brought the odd smile to your miserable faces, and lightened your dark days. It was great for us. For a couple of oldies we had the kind of unadulterated fun that should be reserved for teenagers. We both agreed that if there is ever a next time Josh should come with us; if for no other reason than to keep us in check.

But, perhaps, the best response we got to the blog was on reddit.com from a woman called Alice Capone. I shall post it verbatim:

"Please tell your parents that if they ever want to share a vacation house on the Gulf of Mexico with a couple of like-minded middle-aged smoking wastrels (who can cook), we will pack the fuck up and motor on down there immediately with extreme glee. It appears they can keep up with our drinking and sarcasm habits, therefore would make awesome vacation partners!

If your parents can handle the inevitable weirdness, that is; such as when we went late-night drunk swimming and I got stung by a jellyfish on my belly; extreme high drama ensued, including a 2 a.m. emergency run to the mainland hospital because we sprayed that shit with Bactine and I went into shock, only to come out of it halfway there and insist on returning home immediately to treat my pain with copious amounts of booze.

Didn't realize WTF had actually happened till the next day, when it occurred to us to, you know, look at my wound site and check that shit online. After which: "Ew. You're supposed to pee on it?!" "Well, better lie down, baby" "I AM TOTALLY FINE NOW"

Glad you're better Alice... and, who knows, we might just take you up on the offer! Can we get there via Hussong's Cantina in Ensenada? It's one of my favourite pubs in the whole world!

So now I've got to try to find time to edit over six bloody hours of HD footage into a holiday video that I have promised everyone will not exceed three minutes.

Finally, to my best mate, Al, whose brain cancer diagnosis spurred us on to book the holiday we needed and to sod work for a couple of weeks. Thank you friend. We love you. It would have been great to have had you and Rita with us. Hopefully next time, when we'll be with you on your postponed honeymoon.

THE END

The smoking cupboard at Male airport...

Two hours to go to the long flight home. We're in the smoking cupboard in a dense cloud. The air taxi flight at sunrise was quite spectacular, but a somewhat sad affair...



We'll be home by 18h30 this evening. Hope there's a couple of beers and some wine in the house. I've become accustomed to it...

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Location:Male Airport

Goodbye

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

The end of our last day in Paradise…

We’re sitting in the Grill Bar watching the sun set for the last time. Morale is understandably low. We’ve settled our bill and are awaiting our departure instructions… I believe it’s a 06h00 departure but the instructions will be shoved under our door tonight. Our swimming costumes will probably still be wet. No… it’s not 06h00! It’s an 05h45 morning call. Bugger!

We made the most of the ultimate day, in the baking sun, swimming in the sea with the fishies. Sims saw a Moray Eel and browned her costume.

Then it was into the pool for a couple of magic wristband beers. We stayed in there so long that our fingers and toes went all wrinkly; and we couldn’t explain to each other why our digits go funny in water. I spent a while trying to photograph the fruit bats with no luck.

 And so, dear friends, that’s it. It’s all over. The last post will be from our kitchen table in Salford, where this nonsense all began.

Goodbye Meedhupparu… and thanks, you were great! We’ll miss you next week when we’re in the cold, the dark and the rain.

Whew! Scorchio! For the second time since we’ve been here we made it to breakfast. I had bacon and eggs and Sims had some girly stuff that oozed the elusive promise of good health, firm skin and everlasting youth.

After breakfast it was down to the beach; where we lay in the shadows under the menacing threat that is the coconut tree. I went to paddle with the fishies again. It’s awesome! Sims was gripped by the sixth book she has read since she’s been on the island. Thankfully she wasn’t hit on the head by a falling coconut.

After a quick lunch with deaf Tony and his wife we headed back to the beach. Sims was quick to point out the challenging aesthetic of the girl in the white g-string… and I had to agree. It’s the same for the chaps… Unless you have a Linford Christe the Speedo swimming costume is unflattering at best, and hugely amusing at worst. If you are a woman with an arse the size of Ayer’s Rock with more dimpled craters than the surface of the moon do not wear a thong. It offends normal sensibilities.

Late in the afternoon, after a splodge in the pool, we met up with the lucky bastard from Bournemouth again and went for a hoolie on the big bouncy aquatic armchair thingy that we’d been eyeing up all week… For ten minutes or so he dragged us around on the back of a jet-ski, bouncing across his wake, and we just sat there, hanging on for dear life and giggling our tits off like a couple of kids.

And just as soon as you could say “What’s the time?” we were back in the bar with our magic wristbands…

As we contentedly drank our cold beer and wine we watched the sun set on day 12 behind a cloud. Sadly, tomorrow is our last day in Paradise.

Dear Diary - Day 11

Sunday… A day of rest after a busy working week...

A gentle stroll across the island to the Beach Bar where a man on the sand in a chef’s hat was cooking prawns on a gas ring in a frying pan. Sims ordered four of the biggun’s that were the size of lobster tails, and I had ten of the smaller ones. $25.00 per plate with two free beers thrown in. Couldn’t really say no…

You see one of the few problems with this all-inclusive malarkey here at Meedhupparu is that the dining table that they assign you upon arrival remains yours throughout your stay. Now, if we were to have been given a table for two, that would have been all very well. But we got a table for four that we have to share with a couple from the depths of Yorkshire somewhere, which makes their accents hard for either of us to understand. And he was hard of hearing. Which made it worse.

There’s only so much intense listening to shouting slurred incomprehensible Yorkshire that one can manage whilst trying to simultaneously chew and swallow.

So, when the opportunity to eat al fresco presented itself it was hard to turn down…

Fortified by the two cans of Carlsberg that came as a part of the lunchtime deal, augmented with a couple from the Pool Bar, we spent the rest of the afternoon playing about in the water like a couple of kids. It was shameless fun! Yes, even at our age!

Then we walked along the beach back to our little house beside the dreaded sea wall, had a shower in the open air and 46 paces later we sat and watched another beautiful sunset…  Day 11 died in blaze of glorious technicolour… it’s hand held gently, and lovingly, by a few beers, a few red wines, a couple of baskets of french fries, and some spicy tomato sauce…

Dear Diary - Day 10

Today, with not a lot to do apart from watch fish, I think that we should go on a bar crawl. We have now identified the five drinking establishments on the island. The challenge is in charting our course between them in such a way as to maximize the potential of each whilst, of course, minimizing the risks.

I have done an initial risk assessment and the risks are as follows: Death, injury, sickness and getting caught short of a lavatory. To minimize these risks we will consume alcohol according to a strict schedule and route. We will enquire of each other’s health at each stop along the way. We shall wear high-visibility bathing costumes at all times. Should we be separated we will head for the next bar on the list and await the other’s arrival. If, in two hours, the other has not turned up we will retrace our steps to the previous bar keeping a beady eye on the vegetation as we go. If, by nightfall, we have not found each other, we shall presume the worst.

The deadline is to watch the sunset, at 18h30, from the “Grill Bar”. Assuming, from experience, that it takes us 15 minutes to drink each drink, and working backwards from our end point, and taking the unique challenge of drinks 7 and 8 into consideration, I am thinking that the outing needs to start at 16h00. Good, that’s the schedule done… now, the route.

It is probably best to start with “The Sunrise Bar”. That’s the one on the beach next to the Ruskies’ “Exotic Village”. Interestingly, this little palm frond roofed bar doesn’t even appear on any of the maps of the island. This is perhaps the most challenging as we could get our drinks spiked with polonium and end up with our hair falling out. Two drinks should be enough here lest we forsake the wits that we may need to escape unharmed.

A gentle meander through the gardens, or a flat out sprint if we’re being chased by the KGB, will eventually bring us out at the “Pool Bar” which is immediately adjacent to the “Main Bar”. The last time we tried this route we ended up walking around and around the tennis courts. Without the stars to guide us we may have to fashion a sextant out of a coconut. My plan is to follow the crows. They go where the food is.

Presuming that we eventually make it to the “Pool Bar” and the “Main Bar” we will be faced with another challenge. As we’re more likely to get wet in the “Pool Bar” than the “Main Bar” I think we should do the “Main Bar” first. That’s the boring bar. It’s a bit like drinking in an aircraft hangar with crap music. The seats are uncomfortable and, as this is where the wi-fi is, everyone is glued to their i-pads. Two here should be more than sufficient.

 A few languid paces across the wooden decking and we will stroll, fully clothed, into the swimming pool, where we will get wet. The “Pool Bar”, as the name suggests, is in the middle of the swimming pool. Here, waist deep in a cocktail of chlorine and urine, we shall enjoy drinks numbers 5 and 6. It has a particular charm this drinking-in-the-water business. There are a few people who came out on the flight with us who have not left this bar in 10 days. We shall avoid them.

 Leaving the administrative epicenter behind us we will then walk, dripping wet, to the “Beach Bar”. Sitting on a couple of French café chairs under the shade of a palm tree we will engage drinks numbers 7 and 8. As we have been given the challenge of trying to drink a beer underwater, this is the place we shall try this trick. The cans of beer necessary to attempt this death-defying stunt will cost us $7.00 each plus a 10% service charge and a 3.84% tourist tax. However, having already consumed six beers our courage will be up and damn the cost!

 Finally, having doubtlessly swallowed a couple of pints of seawater, and possibly a few small fish, we shall then head for the “Grill Bar” and home. This is the best bar on the island and a great place to watch the sun set on Day 10. Here we will round the day of with drinks numbers 9, 10. Then, followed shortly, by numbers 11 and 12.

After 12 beers it would probably be a good idea to have something to eat. Given the apparent shortage of suitable kebab shops on the island we’ll probably have to make do with a steak at the “Grill Bar” as I doubt that either of us will be keen on retracing our steps back to the Main Restaurant.

What a cunning plan! I shall take the camera to capture the proof of our efforts…

 (As you will see from the photographs that precede each paragraph, the day went very much according to plan. And so Day 10 was, to all intents and purposes, an outstanding success. Sadly, there was no sunset to speak of.

When we got to the Grill Bar it was “Chef’s Night” which involved all of the bar staff, who on Spanish Night had to dress as flamenco dancers, donning chef’s hats. There was music… in the loosest possible sense of the word… played with fortitude by a barman, with no musical talent or training, on an electric keyboard. If a gecko had run up and down his keys it would have sounded more pleasing. Still, after 16 beers we couldn’t have cared less. I even clapped once or twice…

Finally, to answer Mr Mark Gamon’s earlier comment, and to satiate his pre-occupation with my drinking beer underwater with the fishes,… here’s our alternative attempt….)

Fun in the Sun...

I know I worried about the weather in the days leading up to this holiday, but I can honestly say that as the rain lashes the plastic awnings that have been lowered around the bar, and I stand here with my bare feet in the sand, the storm is a relief after a scorching day.

I feel a bit like a 21^st Century Hemingway… in the place of a typewriter I have Microsoft Word with the additional benefit of Photoshop so I don’t have to write that much. To my right; an ashtray, a lighter and a packet of cigarettes. To my left; a pint of lager. In front of me; a colourful backlit selection of bottles of alcohol. Behind me, but 46 paces away, a bed… and Sims.

It’s blowing a hoolie outside and I couldn’t care less. The sweat is dripping off my nose into the sand. It’s been another fantastic day in Paradise. The highlight was yomping about on a Yamaha motorcycle with Honda Goldwing plastic bodywork and water wings. Yeeeeeeeee Haaaaaaa!

There’s a “Start” button, a “Stop” button and a bit of curly plastic that cuts the engine off if you pull it away from the button that you attach it to when you get on; so when you fall off the thing doesn’t carry on screaming towards Sri Lanka and leave you bobbing in the sea at the mercy of the sharks. In the place of the front brake is the accelerator. That’s a bit different. There are no brakes. And the road rises to meet you like no road I have ever ridden. Jesus H Christ!

After the surprise of being given a life jacket that actually fitted me, getting my corpulent frame onto the beast was the biggest challenge. Sims has told me that it was not an altogether inelegant mount, but by the time I’d got my sorry arse in the saddle I needed a rest. Then the fun started. After a tentative pootle about it all got to feel a bit familiar, and so, applying the front brake, we shot off into the deep blue waters with terrifying speed. Bloody Hell!... Well, as a Harley rider, it felt like terrifying speed.

The first time we took to the air I thought “Wha-Hey!” only to be totally blinded by spray when we thumped down… hard. “Oh shit!” I thought. We got around the island in about 15 minutes. For the most part I couldn’t see a word… and wouldn’t have known if our wake was a trail of fish bits and diced snorkelers or not. We were lead around the island by some lucky bastard from Bournemouth who’s here for six months as the watersports guru. He was kind enough to take the pictures. After 20 minutes of flying, thumping and not having a bloody clue where I was going I was absolutely exhausted...

 So it was back to the bar for some fortitude… and terra firma.

Dear Diary - Day 9

Glorious sunshine! I never though I'd see Sims the Sun Bunny scurrying into the shade saying "Whew it's hot!" Well, what's a chap to do?  Back in the warm ocean for a bit of fish spotting... Jet ski-ing later... :) God, this is hard!

In the ocean I feel like an Action Man doll in a fish tank. There's bloody hundreds of them! It is, really, hugely impressive. They don't seem a bit frightened of humans and just carry on their fishy business in their fishy ways... I hope the jet ski doesn't leave a trail of chopped sushi in its wake...

Dear Diary - Day 8 ... Oh dear… I’m drunk…

I know this because I discovered a huge spider outside our room tonight. Not like a man-eating spider or anything; just a critter with a leg span of about 10 centimeters. Big enough to encourage an embarrassing movement if you aren’t that keen on them. How did I discover the spider? Well I needed a wee, and as I was pissing on the outside of our house the spider came hurtling down the wall and disappeared under the foundations. Well, I hear you ask: Why were you pissing on the outside of your house when you have perfectly acceptable facilities within? The answer is that the door key wouldn’t work.

Eventually, having relieved the urinary tension that was clouding my better judgement, I realized that I was trying, defiantly, persistently and with crossed legs, to fit the key for 239 into 241’s lock. If the occupants were light sleepers they must have been terrified.

Without the tension of a pressing bladder problem, and of a much clearer mental disposition, I set off in search of 239… and found 243. Right! About turn… and, a while later, here I am safely ensconced in our little house. The key fitted the door perfectly, Sims is asleep on the bed, wrapped up in a sheet, that makes her look quite angelic, and I’m, quite obviously, drunk…

It's Nice Here Innit'?

The “Spanish Evening” was interesting. It was about as Spanish as… as… as something that isn’t particularly Spanish at all. I’m sure the Ruskies were convinced of the authenticity of the visitor experience watching the waiting staff uncomfortably dressed as male flamenco dancers listening to a bit of guitar plucking but it wasn’t really Spanish. Not coastal Spanish anyway. There was no Heenglis fish and chips, no full Heenglis breakfasts, no warm bitter, no Union Jack shorts, nobody vomiting, fighting, or lying in a puddle of their own urine. And we weren’t even invited to do the Lambada with a load of fat girls, which was a bit of a disappointment.

The meatballs, or albondigas, were the best meal I’ve had since I’ve been here. They were lovely. In the same way that liver, onions and bacon are lovely; whatever they were made from they were great.

I was rudely reminded this evening that in six days we will be leaving this wristband Paradise and heading for home. And I thought to myself; if anyone had offered me a week in the Maldives I’d have bitten their hand off. We have a week left; so get on and bloody enjoy it.

As a consequence of this mindset we are going to live life to the full! In a couple of hours Sims and I are going to be taken to an uninhabited island by boat and dropped off on it. Just her, me, and a million plastic bags washed up on shore. We have to report at 10h15 for a 10h30 sailing and they’ll pick us up again at 16h30. They told us that they’ll give us a picnic basket. Doubtlessly full of apples and all of the other shit that donkeys eat. “Beer?” I asked….

Ever remembering that this is an Islamic nation, and that alcohol is only licensed to resort islands the request became a bit of a tricky issue. Thanks to my charm and Sims’ good looks we have to buy our beer from the Grill Bar at 10h00… get to reception by 10h15… set sail at 10h30 (with our beers hidden from the crew)… and if we don’t bring our empty cans back with us (hidden) we’ll be tied to a coconut tree and nibbled to death by fruit bats. Fairy Nuff…

The down side is that the 12 beers will cost us about £50.00. But given that there is slight chance that I shall ever be alone with the woman I love on a deserted island in the middle of the Indian Ocean in my lifetime ever again… or at least be there by choice… it’s a small price to pay for deep joy.

Of course the idea that the entire island is rigged with discretely hidden webcams has crossed my mind.  I’d hate to discover myself on YouTube with a million hits. That would be for all the wrong reasons. The thought that in the staff compound every evening there is an outdoor cinematographic screening of foreigners fornicating is slightly troubling.

Given that we are both burned to a crisp and temporarily addicted to Ocean Potion the idea of frolicking around nekkid has been repressed. Sims was even suggesting that we should take an umbrella to keep the sun off us. But the romantic notion is there… Given that the sky is leaden and it looks as if we’re going to be in for a tropical storm I don’t think even the umbrella will help.

With 45 minutes to go to departure I have just reminded myself of the impracticalities of having a poo in the wilderness. Not only is there, usually, the risk of some creature biting your behind from behind, but also the horrible thought that something might lay its eggs in you, or worse. Not to mention the difficulty of finding a comfortable squatting position when one is over 50. There is every chance that I will unbalance myself, or my knees will give way under the weight of my stomach, and I’ll end up in a rather undignified state and having to wash myself in the sea.

Once the man in the colourful skirt has finished cleaning our room, which he does with great efficiency twice a day, I shall avail myself of the porcelain depository, and wipe my bottom with White Cat Chinese toilet tissue ready for the day ahead.

By the time I get to post this up we’ll be back…. Hopefully alive and still talking to each other… and, if, in nine months,… NO! Don’t even go there!

We’re back! And the 12 small cans of San Miguel cost us $95.00 – probably the most expensive beer I have ever drunk in my life! Was it worth it? Yup! The sea trip took an hour and it did look as if we were heading into a monsoon, but once we got there the weather cleared.

We got a wicker basket and a cooler box, two plastic loungers and an umbrella. The fellah who dropped us off put a rock on the wicker basket and impersonated a chicken. I assumed that the rock was to stop the wicker basket flying away. Anyway, he left….

Then the dhoni, a flat-bottomed boat with a diesel engine, sailed about two hundred meters off shore where it lurked for the four hours we were “on our own”. God only knows what the three crew did with themselves.

The island was awesome. We walked around it in 15 minutes, sat on the loungers and read, had lunch – cold roast chicken, boiled eggs, cheese and tomato sandwiches, tomato and cucumber salad and the stuff that donkeys eat. We didn’t eat much, put the rock back on the wicker basket and went snorkeling.

When we got back to our plastic loungers the crows had shifted the heavy rock, eaten everything in the basket including the little foil covered butter thingies, and shat copious amounts of green stuff on the cooler box. It was tinfoil and cling film mayhem. Note to self; never ignore a person who impersonates a chicken.  

Later a little furry, and very disheveled, rat came along for a bit of pineapple. His back was ripped open, probably from the crows, and he was infested with flies. It’s a cruel place Paradise…

And so, Day 8 draws to a close. I’m still overcome with the sheer beauty of this place… rats an’ all. Tomorrow... the Jet Ski!