Trying Not To Get Eaten By Komodo Dragons

My mom is in town, and we're trying to show her a good time. And what better way to entertain a guest than put her in harm's way?

Being in the Komodo islands, it would be silly not to try to see the Komodo dragons. And if you are going to bother travelling to see the dragons, you might as well go in the early morning when they are feeling frisky.

We anchored off Rinca, and headed off bright and early to the ranger's station to pay and collect a guide. The guides are there not only as experts, but for protection. Not only are the dragons huge, their saliva carries all sorts of horrible bacteria and they have venom glands under their teeth to inhibit coagulation. They bite their prey (deer, buffalo - little things like that), hang around for a couple of weeks waiting for it to die a horrible death, then they eat it it. Charming. So I was expecting our walk would be rather like it is on a Kruger National Park walk: a couple of rangers with big guns in front and running sweep, and tourists in the middle.

Reefs and Mantas aka Komodo is a Dream

Yes, we went back for more, and it was even more amazing than the first time. I am becoming concerned that the girls have a completely skewed view of how life should unfold. On second thought, maybe not.

(Actually stories coming. For now, enjoy the photos.)

Masks & Fire

Cruising has a lot of positives. You become more flexible. You learn to live simply. You slow down. But these mental shifts have their drawbacks. Primarily, you (read: I) lose all perspective about what "normal life" looks like. Cruisers live in a world where you wake up in the morning, discover the local conga festival is starting, and spend a happy day admiring costumes and eating meat-on-a-stick. There is no planning. There are no logistics. Wake, discover, enjoy. That's it.

The problem comes when you return to regular life with a regular schedule. Suddenly, your vacations have to be planned - ahead of time and everything. Book travel, book hotels, try not to cringe when you think of eating restaurant meals for a week. And not only do you have to plan, but your years on the boat have given you a warped notion of what a vacation should look like. There will be no beach holiday at an all-inclusive. There will be no Disneyland. No, what you are looking for is more along the lines of sitting in the grass under an umbrella and hanging out with the locals. Hopefully with a snappy dance number.

Fire Dance

I'm building quite a backlog, aren't I? Add the Mask Festival to the list of things I need to write about this month.

Banana Shopping

I told you all a giant fib. I won't be writing my next hotly-anticipated Moving the Boat segment this week. We're off to the PNG Mask Festival, so the thrilling tale of our wavy trip from Noumea to Brisbane will just have to wait a little bit longer.

In the meantime, I present the following educational piece:

How to Buy Bananas in the Tropics

Step 1: Look off the porch. Notice bananas growing behind your house are ripe.

Step 2: Grab a machete.

The Ants Go Marching

Boats are rarely pest-free zones. There and just too many places to hide. And even if you do get rid of an infestation, you can count on a new crop of eggs sneaking aboard behind the labels on your tins, or in the bananas, or on cardboard anything. We do our best to keep Papillon neat, tidy and bug-free, but it is a case of constant vigilance.

You would think it would be easier on land. Everything is open and accessible in a house - there is nowhere to hide a nest that won't be easily discovered. And, sure enough, when we moved into our place last September we found it pretty bug-free. Our major concern was the malaria-carrying mosquitoes in the area, but the air conditioning keeps them outside where they belong. So while I still tried to keep the house crumb-free and an untempting target, it didn't seem as mission-critical as once it did.

And then we went away for six weeks at Christmas. When we got back, I discovered an army had invaded our territory.

The ants had arrived.

Treasures at the Beach

There was a time in my life when a visit to the beach was as rare and exciting as Christmas. Once in a blue moon my parents would hook the pop-up trailer to the back of the Big Red Van, and we would trundle off to Southampton. It didn't matter if the water was cold, we didn't care if the sky was grey. We were at the beach! Seashells! Sand castles! Bathing suits 24/7, baby! Peeling shoulders, new friends from exotic locales such as Sarnia and Guelph, and hair full of sand. It was about as good as life gets.

For my kids, excitement is seeing a squirrel in Grannie and Poppa's backyard. "Oh! Oh! Mom! Did you see that? Quick, look - it's a squirrel! Oh my gosh, can I go outside and see it? I hope it doesn't run away!" There's no doubt they love the beach, but there is no mystery there. Try to entice them with a stretch of sand and the promise of some fish in the water, and all you'll get is a look that says, "Okay, okay, don't hurt yourself. It's just the beach."

Costumes, Hats and Other Odd Traditions

Let's start today with a quiz. Complete the following sentence: Tuesday was ________.

Most of you will have finished that off with phrases like "rainy" or "a pretty good day". But if you are Australian, you definitely said: Tuesday was Melbourne Cup. Still lost? It's a horse race. More accurately, it is the horse race that brings the nation to a standstill.

For a race that lasts less than 200 seconds, that is a pretty impressive feat. Not only is it a public holiday in Melbourne, but the rest of the country shuts down (officially or not) from about noon onwards in order to drink champagne, watch pop stars perform, and wear funny hats.

Preparing for Tropical Hallowe'en

Sorry, no time to talk. It's Hallowe'en, and I am trying to get ready. I have a very busy schedule of ordering/receiving proper treats from North America (check), making decorations (check), and explaining what Hallowe'en is to people who run the gamut from "oh, yeah, that's an American thing," to "never heard of it and why are you torturing that watermelon?" (ongoing).

Like all immigrants, I am appalled that my deeply cherished traditions are not immediately understood and embraced by my new land. It rocks me to my core that there are people out there who don't understand Hallowe'en, best of all the holidays, night of imagination and unlimited chocolate. I would have thought that Hallowe'en was about as high-concept as a holiday could be: children become actual monsters to rule the night. Where is the confusion? Plus, Hallowe'en boasts more apostrophes than any other holiday, and that is just plain fun.

I have put my shock and dismay behind me and have moved on to Phase II of the Immigrant Holiday Experience: how do I adapt the crucial parts of my traditions to suit this new place? For example, what to do about a jack o' lantern? (See, another apostrophe.) Pumpkins aren't exactly thick on the ground, here.

As a public service, I hereby present this handy primer on celebrating Hallowe'en in the tropics:

When the Army Runs a Carnival

One of the first rules of cruising is: accept every invitation. (This is also one of the first rules of life, especially for an introvert like me.) So, when a friend invited us to the local military open house, I said yes.
"It's lots of fun," said Camille. "They have lots of activities for the kids."
I nodded, and wondered what that meant. I was a little surprised that Camille, of all people, was suggesting this outing.  This is a woman who steadfastly refuses to let her kids watch violence on television, play mock-battles, or otherwise engage in any aggressive activity.
"If Camille thinks this is a wholesome family activity," I thought, "then it must be okay."
So, on a cloudy Sunday morning, we headed out to Camp Broche, more properly known as Régiment d'Infanterie de Marine du Pacifique Nouvelle-Calédonie.

We have seen a lot of signs of the military over our four years on the water.  As we travelled down the East coast of the USA and through the Caribbean, we saw Coast Guard ships, aircraft carriers and submarines. We heard notices on VHF 16 warning us away from certain zones while exercises were being performed. As we sailed down the ICW toward Norfolk, Virginia, a very polite young man on the enormous warship behind us asked if they might sidle past. 

Ma'am, would you mind if we passed you?

Whale Watching in Baie du Prony

"You want to go whale watching?" I asked.  "On someone else's boat?"
"Heck, yes!" said Erik, rubbing his hands together.  "The season has started; there should be humpbacks in Prony by now.  Come on, it'll be fun."
Fun Daddy was back in town.  We only see Erik for a few days every month, and he is always keen to make the most of his time with us.
I looked over the brochure. With Papillon due to get hauled out and checked over in a couple of weeks, we weren't going to make it down there under our own steam.  It would be kind of fun to be purely a passenger for once.  And, let's face it, I'm a sucker for marine mammals.

The day was clear but cold.  By six a.m. we had boarded the catamaran, because early is how these New Caledonians roll.  The dozen of us scrunched around the table as the captain began his departure talk.

I leaned over to Erik.  "My money is on this being 50% about not breaking the toilet."

Beautiful Places: Camping in the Tuamotus

Part of the fun of setting up this series of "remember when" posts has been reviewing our trip for myself. As I skimmed through French Polynesia, I was shocked to discover that I haven't posted any photos of the Tuamotus - one of the most beautiful places we have visited.  And so, for my last holiday post, I will remedy the oversight.  I'll be back to regular posts later in the week.

Originally posted as Sleeping in the Great Outdoors, September 4, 2012
My family did a lot of camping when I was young. Every summer we hitched our pop-up trailer to the big red van, and toodled around the great campgrounds of Southern Ontario. When I was a little older, I was introduced to the joys of a damp sleeping bag when I was sent to a summer camp in Algonquin Park. This was a canoe trip kind of camp, and we girls were sent out for a few days at a time to paddle the lakes as the blackflies buzzed and the mosquitoes whined. After a long day of paddling a canoe and acquiring a mild sunburn, occasionally punctuated by a tiring portage, our counsellors would guide us to a campsite. As the sun went down, we would coax the wet sticks we found into a fire and try to cook something before falling dead into our drippy canvas tents. (Note to the interested: Kraft pizza mix is a superior camping meal. Wrap the dough around a stick, cook it in the fire, then dip the dough stick into the tomato sauce and sprinkle with cheese. Cést magnifique. I only had this once during my camping career, and still remember it clearly almost thirty years later.) As a parent, I see how wise it was to tire out a quartet of nine-year-old girls in this way. Although I didn´t care for camp as a whole (too much rigidly-scheduled cheerfulness), I have fond memories of gliding across still lakes, listening to the birds overhead, and eating charred, sticky marshmallows at the end of the day.

Being On Time: A Cultural Mystery

As close as we get to hurrying around here.

Many years ago, I stood waiting for a train in Switzerland.  Shortly before my train was due, a very apologetic-sounding announcement came over the loudspeaker.  By the third repetition, I had the Swiss-German mostly deciphered: our train would be two minutes late, and the management was deeply sorry for the inconvenience.  A collective sigh went up along the platform.  The elderly ladies waiting beside me were particularly put out, and continued to grumble until the train arrived - precisely two minutes late.

As a Canadian, I can't say I would have noticed a two-minutes-late train.  That falls within the standard error of "on time" as far as I am concerned.  A five to ten minute grace period doesn't seem unreasonable.  In Germany, they want to run their trains like the Swiss but in fact run them like the Canadians, so, again, waiting an extra few minutes from time to time isn't much of a surprise.

But the French, as has been widely noted through history, are different.

Get Off My Lawn: Learning to Share Space

When my parents decided to visit, I was happy for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the prospect of exploring New Caledonia from the land side.  All too often as we sail around the planet, we stick to strictly water-related activities.  Sailing.  Snorkelling.  Swimming.  The three "S"s.  So this was a chance to try something new.

And over the past couple of weeks, we have been out almost every day.  We explored the reef off Ile aux Canards.  Toured the aquarium.  Hit the beach.

Hmm.  Okay, I guess we haven't completely broken free from our water-based activity schedule.  Even our trip into the mountains to visit Sarramea centered around - you guessed it - swimming in the trou feuillet.

Another family left just as we arrived.  Hot dog!  We had the place to ourselves.  The girls wasted no time in getting into the water.  And after enduring the same safety lecture from me and both of their grandparents about not getting washed down into the next pool, we all had some fun.

Until...

Visiting the Toy Aisle - French Edition

Here we are, two days from Christmas.  Time to break out that wallet and go buy some cheap junk that your family neither wants nor needs!  And even if Christmas isn't your thing, there are all the sales to think about, right?  If you're going to buy things you don't need, you might as well get them at a reduced price.

But, oh, what's this?  Hmm.  Something is fishy here.  It looks like home.  Huge floorspace.  Big crowds.

Industrial-sized bottles of ketchup.

Aha!  There's a clue.

 

A forty-foot display of Champagne is always a good tip-off that you are in a French territory.

Christmas Madness: Hunting Down Impossible Presents

It's that time of year again when even the most patient parents consider slipping out of the house and hiding under a tarp in the backyard until December 25th has come and gone.  And even though it is hot and humid here and about as un-Christmas-y as you can get, our family is gripped by Christmas fever.  My delightful children have been replaced by screaming hyperactive terrors belched forth straight from the Parental Punishment levels of Hell.  How my mother ever made it through those final days before Christmas with four kids whirling around her ankles is a mystery to me.  At least my dad could escape to the office when we were too much to take.

But, despite the fact that the girls are currently driving me crazy, I'd still like to get them something nice for Christmas.  As you can imagine, gift-giving on a boat takes some extra planning.  You can't exactly nip off the the store the night of the 23rd and expect to mop up your last-minute gifts.  For one thing, there usually is no store.  But, for once, we are somewhere completely first world in terms of available commercial goods.  Being a French territory, New Caledonia is well-served out of France.  But since I hadn't planned on being here and I wanted things like English-language books, I did the bulk of my shopping months ago.

The girls made their Christmas lists about six weeks ago.  As the ultra-prepared boat children they are, they wanted to give Santa and me time to get everything sorted out between us.  Stylish handed me her list; I cast a critical eye over her choices.  She won't get it all, but good ideas.  No surprises there.

The Joys of a Rainy Recess

Stylish was hard at work on her math when the light mist turned into a pelting rainstorm.  She dropped her pencil and looked out of the cockpit.  "Mom, it's raining.  Can I go outside and have recess?"
"Sure.  Put on a bathing suit first."
It is a pleasure to say those words again.  The bathing suit part, of course.  I've never been a don't-get-wet kind of person.  But, for so long, going out in the rain meant a pile of gear, drippy wool socks, and demands for hot chocolate at the end of it.  Sending the kids out to play in the rain is much more fun when they don't come back hypothermic.

Meet Our Neighbours on the Reef

There are days I think that we moved onto Papillon not to sail the seven seas, not to give Erik endless tinkering projects, not to spend family time - but to visit every coral reef on Earth.  We are reef peekers.  I feel no shame in that.

Erik and I used to do a lot of diving back in the day, but now we are snorkelers because it lets the kids get involved, and there is so much to see in those first twenty feet, anyway.  Now that Indy has joined the ranks of strong swimmers, it is all the easier.  Not that I didn't enjoy towing her along by her lifejacket strap or carrying her on my back.  But sometime over the past few months she made the switch from child to fish, just as Stylish did when we were starting out.  And now we are a well-oiled snorkeling machine.

Special Delivery

Back in the day, I used to order the odd thing online.  I would come home after a hard day of doing whatever it is I used to do, only to find a small white notice from Canada Post flapping on the doorknob.  I would heave a dramatic sigh, walk 500 yards to the post office, wait in line for 39 seconds, retrieve my stuff, and leave, shaking my head at what a martyr I was for picking up my own post.

Not really.  Getting a package is fun, and it was rare I was so busy as to mind the "hassle".  But once we arrived on Papillon and sailed out of US waters, I learned what a mystery the postal system can be.  Retrieving lost toilets in Panama, for example.  We've dealt with secondary shippers and carriers who don't understand that "Yacht in Transit" means "no customs fees".  Some places are easy, some not so much, but every country we visit is a little bit different.

But, let's face it: no one does "the plans have all been changed now" like the French.  We have gotten three packages from overseas since we arrived in Noumea, and they all followed a different path.  Let's review.

How Wild Is Your Wildlife? Part II: A Campsite Full of Snakes

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I travelled to Indonesia to do some research for my undergraduate thesis.  I was working with a prof who did coral research, which meant our group spent all day every day on the reef.  It was a sweet gig.  Our fearless leader, Dr R, was unflappable.  He had a thousand stories of things that had gone wrong here and there in his travels, but, since nothing really fazed him, somehow those stories never came across as scary.  So when he told me in all seriousness that I should be afraid of sea snakes, I was afraid of sea snakes.  Investigating the matter supported that point of view.  The very pretty sea krait (genus Laticauda), or tricot rayé as it is called in New Caledonia, is more poisonous than a cobra.  Oh, and did I mention there is no antivenin?  Right.  Not good.

So let's get down to business on sea snakes.  Here I am, all blasé about sharks, but I'm afraid of a wiggler hardly the length of my arm?  In a word: yes.  Not terrified, not panicky - I just intend to give sea snakes a very wide berth.  Luckily, the tricot rayé is with me on that.  They live in the rocks ashore, hunt in the reefs, and don't want anything to do with you.  Once again, our "don't be an idiot" advice applies.  Don't bug the snakes, and they won't bug you.

This is sometimes easier said than done.