Sport Sport Fucking Sport"

Weird and Creepy - what's with the giant evil baby's body anyway?

I must confess, I wasn't exactly counting down to the Olympics.  But now they're here I've become an Olympic Addict.  I freely admit it.  I tuned in with excitement for the opening ceremony.  It certainly was "spectacular", I'm just not sure if I liked it.  Kenneth Branagh with bushy sideburns and a top hat, talking ye olde English shit?  Please.  And what was with that hospital bit?  That creepy giant baby?  I'm with dlisted.com - that was plain wrong.  This site also brought up another good point.  In that boy/girl hook up with texts segment - how did the boy text the girl to tell her he had her phone, when he had her phone????......it just wasn't covered satisfactorily.

shut your pie hole Kenny

Today I watched a whole hour and a half of men's gymnastics.  I didn't even care that there were no Australians in it.  Before that it was another hour or so of men's synchronised diving.  What the.....?  I didn't even know that was a sport.  Well in the Caribbean they do -  it's all over the one and only Caribbean channel that telecasts the games.  I spotted a small group of people watching more synchronised diving in a beach bar a couple of days ago as well.  No Aussie's in today's event of course, it means you're forced to go for the Mexicans....they came second - "Go Mehico".  I only go for them so I can say "Mehico".

Seriously - who knew this was a sport?

Whenever I'm outside Australia I do find myself often becoming overly patriotic.  For god's sake I used to wear an Australian flag bikini out and about (I'm going red just thinking about it).  But I'm not alone.  Just look at the Australians draped in flags standing on at hill in Turkey at 5am shouting "Oi Oi Oi", when ANZAC Day to them previously meant unrestrained biscuit eating and the day off work.  I myself, patriotically shed a little tear when the woman's relay team "brought the gold home" with their "stunning victory".  I'd never even spared a single thought for any of those women previously, but now I'm bawling over them, and honestly believe I share their joy.

Ah girls, you melt the heart

Australians are a fickle lot.  Let the home crowd down in any way, and immediately your name is dirt.  It has to be gold all the way - Emily Seebohm is going to get no love for the crappy bit of silver she got after losing Australia's her gold.  Liesel Jones becomes another chubby loser, and Stephanie Rice is of course the slutty bigot we always knew she was.  Meanwhile Nick D'Arcy lost hope of redeeming himself to golden boy status, and is just another thug.  And a loser.  Don't forget loser.  However if it had gone the other way for any of the poor, once loved bastards, it would have been "Our" Emily and "good old D'Arcy - he's such a loveable rogue".  All would have been forgiven, Nick would have been able to job Robert De Castella, Liesel would have got sponsorship from Tim Tams, while "fun loving Steph" would have been able to flash her snatch to her hearts content.

All the disbelief in the world isn't gunna get you the gold bitch

Now if I could just find my last white Tim Tam

So you look hot? It's no gold medal love

D'Arcy and Monk - doing it for the kids 

There's also another Olympic effect.  I may be alone here but after seeing all those unbelievable bodies parading around in their speedos and tight pants, I'm always like "Right! I am putting on my gear and getting out on that god dam road for a run dam it".  It's never successful.  I've caught sight of myself jogging before and it's not pretty.  Shoulders hunched, shuffling feet, strangely high swinging arms, a sticking out chin and a puce red complexion.  I've avoided exercise of late.  Forget all the other factors like laziness and a preference to eating cake, I've been scarred.  Last year, Chalks and I did 3 months of training in this sticky, humid, hilly place and then ran a marathon in Switzerland 2 weeks after we left.  It wasn't my first one either - so you think I would have learnt from the first 42km run I did in Tokyo in 2008.  That one left me unable to walk for three days.  Couldn't bend my legs - they were stuck straight.  It was actually humorous......

Cordi by a hair.......

After my first marathon experience, I became pregnant soon after.  Ending up a rather large unit I told myself that one day I would run another one. It's ok to deceive yourself when you're very fat.   My own father thought this was a great joke and declared that it would never happen - "the first one was a fluke" he would taunt - I was dreaming in his humble opinion.   That was all the motivation I needed.  I decided then and there that I would run another one.....eventually....after I finished my family pack of M&Ms.  Anyway, two years later (I had a lot of chocolate to get through first), when I hobbled across that finish line in Lausanne, I looked forward to calling him and saying "Hahaha".  When I think about it, I do find it a little strange and a unusual aspect of my character, that I would put myself through months of hellish training in 35 degrees and 90% humidity, running up to 90 kilometres a week, and then fly to Switzerland where I proceeded to drag my punished body 42km around a lake, every fibre of my being begging me to stop, just so I could say to my Dad "I told you so".  Hmmmm could be one for the therapist's couch.

The medal is gold bitches - gold!

But of course I wouldn't do it unless I got some other kind of pay off.  There is something satisfying in completing a task so daunting and unimaginable to yourself just a short time beforehand.  I literally ran so much before the marathon that I wore my heels down and deflated the air right out of my Nike Airs.  Unable to buy a new pair until we left the Caribbean, I created a new style of Nike.  Nike Papers.  This is where I stuffed the soles with newspaper and glue.  Not really imagining they will take off, but I guess it's all in the marketing.....

It's only natural that seeing incredible feats of sporting achievement everyday would make me reminisce about my former sporting "Glory" and I do use that word very very loosely.  I am way off even considering running another one.  There's too much dedication involved.  I'm much more dedicated to watching sport on TV at the moment.  You experience all the challenges, the highs, the lows, the desperation, the triumph - all without cracking a sweat....Go Aussie, and do I dare bring the bogan?....well it is the Olympics, surely that is classifies as a special occassion......here I go....forgive me.......OI OI OI!!!!!!!!  (I'm so sorry everyone, I've never done that before.......fuck, I may as well put LOL on the end to top it off)........

Never smile at a crocodile

It can’t be denied.  I’ve been a bit slack of late on the old blog writing.  To be honest, there just isn’t that much going on around here.  What do I write? – Yeah I ate another mango, took another swim.  Who wants to hear that crap?  Certainly not the majority of my audience who are for the most part sitting around in jumpers experiencing a daily high of ten degrees.  Now, they definitely don't want to hear that I spent another day in my bikinis.  It’s nauseating and offensive.

Therefore, I’ve decided to dive into the archives and throw a few stories of old out there.  The other good news is that these stories are already written, have accompanying photos, and have been sitting in the files of my old computer for the last four years.  A computer that my trusty buddy dug around in boxes of my crap looking for that I’d left in her cupboard since 2006.  That means less work for me, and more bullshit for all you.  A good result?  Well I’m sure you’ll let me know in time.

Our first tale is a little number I call “Teasing Crocodiles”.  It was written in May 2008 when I spent a month in Costa Rica.  Actually there’s a lot I wrote about that natural Disneyland of a country – so just let me know if you tire of it.  Otherwise it’ll just keep on coming…….

Teasing Crocodiles

I can’t help but think that crocodiles are the kinds of animals that shouldn't ever be teased.  Let’s face it; it’s not like tugging gently on a ball of string, as your fluffy little ginger kitten paws it cutely with that sweet, if not slightly half-crazed look in its eye.  After all, it's a universally accepted fact that crocodiles can eat people, and sometimes do.  Kitties only do the same if they’re trapped starving in a house with their already dead owner and there’s nothing else to snack on except a dead rotting face.  Kittens never do the killing themselves.  Or so we're led to believe.

murderous little ranger

That’s the difference between kittens and crocodiles, well among many such as size, colour, number of teeth, lack of fluff,  and then there's the reptile factor. It’s a well known fact that at least a couple of times a year a German backpacker is devoured like a hot piece of schnitzel.  Most Aussies’s then comment on the victim’s stupidity for deciding that a morning dip in a Kakadu lake was just the thing to wake up with (how about the flesh being torn from your arse to do the job Helga?  - you should have just gone a warm cup of international roast with powdered milk…..).  We do actually feel sorry for Han’s and his error in deciding to take a closer look at six metre beauty from his cheap flimsy kayak, but mostly we thank our lucky stars it wasn’t us being made into a continental breakfast and go onto the next story about the world’s biggest squash being grown in Shepparton.

hello handbags

However, along with the terror comes the fascination.  One day, while driving from the small town of Atenas located in the mountains of Costa Rica west of San Jose, I noticed we were approaching a tourist hot spot.  According to a well-known travel guide, it was the bridge at Tarcoles - whatever that shit means.  I had forgotten about it until I saw the people looking over the sides.  “It’s the crocodile bridge – stop stop!!!” I shouted.  We stopped. I got out into the heat and expectantly peered over the rail of the bridge. I definitely wasn’t prepared for the several 4 metre long salt-water crocodiles basking in the shallows.  Nor was I expecting to see one, two, three, four more submerged beasties.  Their armoured backs were caked with dried mud as they floated there like giant murderous logs. Looking out over the other side of the bridge, we saw four more crocs soaking up the rays on the shore, and a few smaller ones lurking in the mud.  In total we counted seventeen – and they were just the ones we could see.

It’s hard not to let the imagination run wild, and imagine leaning just a little bit too far over the edge and then toppling down into a mass of snapping jaws, with lots of blood and screaming. Or it’s actually less scary and more thrilling if you imagine it happening to the American tourist next to you.  She was wearing Crocs.  How appropriate.  And basically, with that kind of fashion choice she deserves to have her limbs torn off her body and her torso stashed under a log for seconds.  I too, always plan my outfit according to what giant predator I intend to be maimed by.  Imagining immediate karma from my grisly and strangely satisfying vision (I really hate Crocs), I kept a firm grip on the rails with one hand, and on my purse with the other. A loss of all life’s essentials could almost be just as bad as the actual limb tearing.

die you purple croc wearing freak. Die!

Deep in thoughts of death, maiming, splurting blood and screaming – basically just like any other day - I then noticed a couple of guys approaching the bridge and laughing wickedly.  They were tying a chicken to a string.  This was one of the supermarket bought chicken you’d turn into a sumptuous meal, not a little squawking feathered chicken. We followed the three Costa Rican lads (or ticos) back to the middle of the bridge.  There was quite a crowd out there now – after seeing the chicken on a string they had decided to stay for the show.  We all watched intently as one of the ticos lowered the chicken ever so slowly down, down and closer to the three or four crocs below.  It was spotted on the descent by couple of the larger ones who slid towards centre position and eyed it off.  However, it was the biggest croc in the river that positioned himself directly underneath. One of the smaller ones, however, wasn’t letting it go so easily and mounted the chief’s back, snapping wildly at the chicken. He managed to grab part of it in his jaws, but the ticos pulled most of the chicken back up quickly, as four crocs thrashed around in the water below.

The watching crowd gasped with expectation.  After all it’s not everyday that you have fun with a roasting chicken.  Then, when all was calm in the river, the chicken was let back down.  However, there was no mucking around this time. The biggest croc didn’t let the chicken out of his sight.  He had his eye on the prize and with a huge propelled jump and a snap the chicken game was over.  As he swam off fast and hard with the chicken and string in his mouth, suddenly there was a crack and the string flicked back up with extreme force hitting one of the ticos in the face.

Everyone applauded (apart from the dude with the welt on his cheek), and suddenly the spell was over as people wandered back to their cars.  I felt a rush of exhilaration mixed with guilt for enjoying the show so much.  There’s something uncomfortable about witnessing the teasing of crocodiles.  Deriving pleasure from watching ancient reptiles fight over a 2-dollar chicken is an uncomfortable realisation about what you yourself consider entertainment.  You become an unwilling witness to their loss of dignity.  Not that they’d give a shit though.  Especially Big Brucie who actually scored the chicken.  You know that with a snap and crunch any one of them would make an entrée out of you without hesitation, but seeing them vulnerable brings up unexpected reactions.  I had heard a couple of Americans mumble disgustedly, “that was sick” yet they watched the whole event with fascination and took a shitload of pictures to later show their friends back home. After that little show, the town of our destination, Jaco - supposedly rife with drugs and prostitution, seemed uneventful and tame.

That’s entertainment in a developing country for you.

Wild Wild East

Where as Mustique is a fake world of perfection, and Bequia is a clichéd example of paradise, the next closest island to us, St Vincent is quite something else.  It is wild and crazy, and has no rules.  Whenever any crime happens in here in Bequia, it is typically attributed to a St Vincien.  For example, this happened last year when some dickhead left our back door open (yes, me) and we got robbed in the night. 

give me back my ipad bitches

People who have had thieves in their house can relate to the feeling of violation.  It really sux.  I remember as a child we had several break-ins at my parents house.  One in particular stands out.  A large group of blundstone boot wearing dudes basically had a party at our place one night when we were all away.  The booze cupboards had been raided and demolished, they’d tried on our ski gear and had had sword fights with the skis.  There was piss on our walls and perhaps most disturbingly a large antique bottle that had contained red ink had been smashed, poured all over, and trodden across my parents beloved pale minty green carpet.  Jesus they were uptight about that carpet.  It was shoes off at all times and not a skerrick of tucker to be munched while standing on it’s plushy beautifulness.  So you can imagine when it was covered in red ink and blundstone boot footprints.  Although at least I could eat my vegemite on toast in front of the TV for a couple of weeks until it got replaced.

Our robbery wasn’t quite as violating.  True there was mess – stuff tipped out everywhere.  My brand new ipad of 3 weeks had been knocked off which could or could have not been karma (I was doing an incredible amount of boasting about it).  The theft of Chalky’s iphone with all business contacts in it was quite a blow…..to him.  As was several hundred bucks in cash.  But perhaps the worst for me – which we discovered much later, was the theft of two of my rings.  One was my engagement number and although sentimental, it was luckily just a temporary until I was able to get my greasy mitts on a real rock.  But another really special one ended up at some pawnshop somewhere, or perhaps melted down for a tooth filing. 

Really, we just breathed a sigh of relief that they didn’t decide to hold a knife to our throats and try for some bigger loot.  If we’d had to call the cops, or should I say cop, we would have been waiting a long time.  The robbers would have had enough time to not only murder us, but dissolve our bodies in lime to get rid of the evidence.  Bequia’s sole policeman wasn’t exactly in a hurry to come up here, and upon meeting him we immediately lost hope that anything would be recovered.  However, if you’ve got a baby goat that’s stuck in a ditch, he’s your man and I can give you his number.

all aboard

If you want to visit St Vincent from Bequia, you have to take a one hour ferry trip.  You can drive your car on board if you like.  A top idea – with the sun and the heat, the last thing you want to be doing is wandering around Kingstown until 5.30pm.  The main town itself is very third-worldish.  Fruit and veggie stands all over the sides of the road, mangy dogs, puddles of dirty water, rubbish, hecklers, and a hot hot sun.  Fun to be a part of……until I crack the shits because I’m too hot and want to go back to the air-conditioned car. 

not exactly loving it either

off to see a volcano

The nature itself is just like the people.  Wild and out of control.  The jungle is so lush, that it literally drips down the hills to the black sand beaches.  These beaches owe their dark hue to St Vincent’s active volcano La Soufriere.  Old Soufers hasn’t blown its lid since 1979, but when she does, she doesn’t muck around.  Thousands of people are killed in explosions that can last for 10 months, while many villages are evacuated.  But because of the volcano, St Vincent has an incredibly lush fertile soil.  All the fruits and vegetables sold around this region all come from St Vincent.  But, by far it’s biggest cash crop is every uni student’s and dole bludger’s favourite – good old green gold.  In fact the amount of pot coming out of St Vincent is so prolific that the prime minister of Barbados went absolutely mental at the St Vincent’s prime minister a few years back.  I think he wanted him to clean up his country’s act.  It didn’t work and the buds just keep on blooming.

Why would he shut it down?  It's the sole reason his country keeps afloat, and he, himself can buy a few stone mansions around the place.  Seriously, the country has no industry.  If you check it out, bananas are listed solely as the only exported commodity.  It really is the country of "make it up as you go along". It's a broken down, crappy dump, where nothing works or is ready within anywhere near the timeframe you need it by.  That's mainly because everybody's stoned.  What a brilliant place.

a tempting night out beckons

irresistible chickeny goodness

St Vincent has also just finished it’s major event of the year – Vincy Mas.  Carnival time in the Caribbean goes sick nuts, and the St Vincent’s celebrations are one of the sickest of all nuts.  It’s a ten day party of drinking, dancing , dress ups,  and tits and arse shaking.  My god, there has never been more bumping and grinding going on than by the ladies of Caribbean Carnivals.  They put rap artist videos to shame.   Then there are the Jab Jabs.  The spooky motor oil and molasses covered revellers of the night that come down out of the hills and dance the streets with the aim of terrifying the onlookers. I’d be definitely terrified.  Terrified I might get that bloody motor oil on my dress.  To cover people in that black sticky shit is their aim, so hugs and grabbing abounds……

OK then.....

piss off buddy

scarier than the jab jab

This year we missed Vincy Mas, but next year we are going all out.  I’ve already started building up my butt with fried chicken and breadfruit so I can strap on one of those sparkly numbers and shake it all night.  However, it just doesn’t work so well for white people though – and my embarrassing lack of rhythm puts a spanner in the works really as well.  I think I’d rather sit back and watch with a large joint of St Vincent's finest in my hand, fend off the Jab Jabs and search women's hands for my pink sapphire ring.  That failing, there's always Mount Coke......Vive Vincy Mas……

Food glorious food

There are a few things concerning food that annoy me.  One; people that call themselves "foodies".  Two; photos of plates of food posted on facebook - honestly, who cares what you're about to chow down on? Show me a picture of your poo the next day and I'll be more impressed.  And three; the word "scrummy".

No matter how you style it

Anyway, if you're a "foodie" who can't wait to post some pics of your scrummy meal you're about to devour into cyberspace, I wouldn't come to Bequia.  In fact, I'd probably give the entire Caribbean region a wide berth unless you're idea of a sublime munchout is rice and beans (they just don't come out well in holiday snaps no matter how much you photoshop them).

Some people see insect.  I see yesterday's lunch

Bequia is not exactly an epicentre for fine dining.  How could it be.  There's no shops to buy anything.  You could try your luck at Knights Supermarket, but only if you feel like whipping up a batch of weevil surprise.  You can actual see them squirming around in the "sealed" packets of dry goods on the shelves sometimes.  Last year I didn't realise you had to sift the flour to check for the revolting little critters and whipped up a batch of weevil pikelets for the girls.  Apparently your stomach acids kill them, otherwise we are all playing host to a supercity of bugs and their wiggling offspring.  I read an article the other day about how insects are the food of the future.  The article included a recipe for worm-meal quiche and showed various skewered scorpions awaiting Chinese munchers.  Even if so, I would prefer to make the decision myself rather than find a few carcases in my leftovers.

Get 'em while they're hot

Wow - curried goat scrubs up worse than rice and beans

Apart from being filled with bugs, there also isn't much food variety here.  Let's face it, if you're looking for organic udon noodles, or almond milk you're going to be searching those dusty shelves for an eternity.  On the other hand if you want to whip up a goat stew, well buy up and get simmering.  There is an interesting item that often appears on menu boards in this region.  "Goat Water".  Are you tempted?  Don't be, it's just the left over water after you take out your boiled goat.  Curious about "Mannish Water"? Order only if you enjoy the water that remains after boiling goat organs.  It's all about goats and their inners around here people.  How much meat are on those hoofed beasts though?  They look kind of wiry to me. I guess that's why they drink their organ water.

Mannish water anyone?....anyone?

Just not that appetising

But it's not all organ water and weevils. There is a specialty shop here that sells a variety of imported goods.  Doris does jack up her prices though, so you better be really committed to getting your Hershey's Kisses.  I'm sure she does a roaring trade during peak season, but come summertime, and the shit just sits there, and sits there.  In fact some of those blocks of brie look like they've been around since Princess Margaret got off her gear and then got on the gear in the 70s.  I've shelled out a fortune before for a block of Lindt to discover it's got that white coating and a mangled shape due to many hours in the hot sun before it re-solidifies into pictured blob.

My advice is to avoid goat by-products and go nuts on the fruit and vegetables.  To be honest there isn't a great variety here either.  Don't hold out for anything rather than basic salad, mangos pineapples and bananas and you'll be loving it.  It's all organic too.  Not because the locals give a shit, they just can't afford pesticides.  Good for us.  Just wash it well.....again with the bug eating - this time slugs. There are also a variety of tropical fruits I'd never tasted until I moved here.

mmmm sour sop

tastes far far better than it looks

My particular favourite is a spiky green fruit with the unappealing name "soursop".  Cut it open and there lies it's delicious white flesh - sort of a cross between a fruit tingle and ice cream.  I've been putting it away like it was about to go into extinction when I found out a few other uses for it.  #1 A cancer fighter.  This spiky bastard packs some serious cancer fighting punch. http://www.theultimateveganguide.com/home/the-benefits-of-soursop
And #2, It's leaves can be boiled up and used as a sedative.  All the locals sedate their babies with it.  Even though I was brought up on a diet of phenergan mixed with that rosehip syrup shit as a child, I decided (perhaps unwisely on reflection) not to go down that child-drugging path.  Sedating kids went out with giving them a good thrashing (the question remains; are we better off?).

I therefore decided to try it out on myself a couple of nights ago.  The tea itself was actually quite tasty, and although I didn't exact find myself nodding off mid sentence like I expected, I definitely hit the sack earlier and didn't lie awake thinking about how I should style my hair at my 2013 wedding.  I first stirred about an hour later than normal to find a child sitting on my head.  I could barely open my droopy eyes.  My bladder was so full that if I'd slept on just 5 mins longer I probably would have had a regression back to unfortunate days when I had a bed wetting issue and Sophie Francis's mum put a plastic sheet on my mattress when I slept over......the shame.......Did  the leaves work?  I believe so.  Will I drug the girls? The question should be - Should I ever keep them undrugged?

A truly beautiful sight

Where's me bloody dog?

So, there may be a noticeable lack of bakeries, cafes and other places that churn out yummy treats.  However, if you plan on drinking your way through more grog than a uni dorm party on NYE, then Bequia is the place for you.  I've never seen cheaper booze in my life.  Bottles of Grey Goose Vodka for less than 20 bucks.  More rum than you can drown an alcoholic pirate in for $1.50, and rare bottles of New Zealand chardonnay for 15 smackaroos.  It's a boozers paradise.  And lets face it, if you're pissed all time you won't even notice the weevils or how bad the mannish water tastes.
Cheers.

Drink up

Days of Thunder

There's been a change in the weather lately.  Cloudy, windy and rainy.  I like it.  It takes the temperature down from searing to plain boiling.  That's a win situation.  It may be strange that a person who doesn't love the heat finds herself in temperatures that hang mostly in the early 30s for a large proportion of the year.  Plus, I've got a pasty complexion that freckles even on cloudy days (yay my bonny Scottish heritage). On the beach, I'm like a vampire, hovering in the shadows in long sleeves, dark sunglasses and a hat.  Nobody should wear headwear and sunglasses at the same time.  It makes you look like you are wearing a disguise.

Who's that girl?

So with the change in weather, I'm feeling pretty chipper.  Of course when the elements really roll in we have to go into shutdown mode, and heave giant 5 metre high doors made of thick wood, by pulling  chains, and then slotting these giant planks into the closing position.  It doesn't always work.  It can also be a bit extreme if the winds have already kicked in.  Often giant puddles of water blow in from under the doors.  The floor gets slippery too.  Denting the back of your head on a concrete floor is no Swiss picnic either.

They they are - the big wooden bastards

We happen to reside in a part of the Caribbean sea that is outside the hurricane belt. Apparently St Vincent and The Grenadines hadn't had a hurricane for 50 years.  Until October 2010 - our first year here.  We had left 3 days before it hit, and it was a pretty bad one - Hurricane Tomas.   People died, and roads got washed away.  The winds were 153 kmph.  It was the 19th named hurricane of that year.  Obviously a big year for storms.

Wouldn't you just move to Denmark or something?

Going nowhere in a hurry 

Hurricane Tomas does it's best

About four years ago, we were living in the Cayman Islands when a hurricane warning went out.  People were evacuating, and the whole island shut up shop.  It was so strange in the day before.  All shop windows were boarded up, the news and radio reported nothing but the approaching storm.  The supermarkets were jammed packed with people buying water, candles, torches, batteries and tinned food.  I think I might have wrestled a woman over a can of peaches.  I don't even like them that much, I was just getting in the spirit of panic.  We were living right on the beach, and had heard the tales of storm surges sweeping through properties.  The hurricane doors were rolled down, and we put everything up off the floor in case of floods.  We could see it approaching, and as we prepared for the onslaught, at the last minute it changed direction and we only copped the tail end of it.  It's so wrong to say this - but I couldn't help feeling a little disappointed.  Ask me if I was glad about the hurricane's fury while I was being drowned by a storm surge, and I'm sure I would have foregone the stormy excitement.

This is what it looked like from our apartment as it drew close

According to the island's residents, it really was a miracle.  People were actually shouting hallelujah in streets.  Actually just one man was, and he could have been insane.  Although, there were a few "praise the lord"s coming from the supermarket when I next went shopping.  It was unfortunate to have a cupboard full of 10 litre containers of water, candles and dried peaches though.  Peach melba anyone?  However, you can't blame residents for being jumpy.  When hurricane Ivan ripped through in 2004 with 280 kmph winds (no shit!), it stayed for two days, and totally flattened the island, putting services out for 6 weeks.

Ivan literally ripped it up

I also had the not so joy of experiencing one of Japan's infamous typhoons.  This time in Hokkaido.  It hit me by surprise - mainly because i didn't spend any time watching the Japanese news.  I value ignorance when living in other lands.  Actually, I value it all the time - it's such a sweet sweet world to reside in.  All I knew, is that I awoke to the sound of banging and smashing and really loud wind.  I wasn't sure if I was still meant to go to work, but decided not to risk the bludge (I was saving all sick days up to take a proper holiday of illness).  I subsequently proceeded to trot off down the street to catch the bus.  It didn't escape my notice that I was the only person on the street.  I also didn't escape my notice that I was having to dodge pieces of tree, airborne rubbish and at one stage, shards of glass (that freaked me out a bit).  I got to the bus stop, and amazingly there were actually other idiots people there.  It was a relief.  Although a short-lived one.

We all waited for ages, I picked countless empty packet of soy sauce out of my hair, and removed flying animae porn pages from my torso.  Finally a bus official came.  He offered a few words to a panicked crowd (ok, a panicked me - everybody else seemed like they were off on a trip to the museum), and proceeded to bundle us all onto a bus.  I was a touch on the concerned side when it took off in the wrong direction, and started making frantic phonecalls to work.  Meanwhile, the bus was rocking, pushbikes and branches were blowing into car windscreens, and parts of roofs were starting to peel off the houses next to us.  I was glancing around in horror, but everybody else seemed to be dozing, checking their phones or reading mags.  It was like I was in a movie where I was the only person aware of the approaching apocalypse as everybody else pottered around in blissful oblivion.  Eventually I made it to work.  And more unbelievably, some of my bloody students turned up.  Jesus, they won't even use their impending doom as an excuse to miss a lesson. Dam their conscientiousness, dam it  I say.  Seriously, I want to know - why would you risk your wellbeing to go to class?  I was getting paid, I had an excuse.  I honestly was not that good a teacher believe you me.  Curiouser and curiouser.

I saw a friend of mine not long after, and noticed she had stitches from the bottom of her little finger halfway down to her elbow.  "What the hell happened" I asked.  She had been looking out her window at the typhoon when a large piece of wood had crashed through.  She put her hand up to defend her face.  It looked pretty bad.  See, it was safer on the streets.

Run Emily RUN!

So, as you can tell I'm all for a bit of storytime based around escapes from disaster.  Whether it's hurricanes, bogan bashers, tsunamis, out of control drivers, failed bomb plots, bears (I'll save that one for next time) or my own children's birth.  There has never been any escape from that final disaster though - it just keeps on giving..... However, I doubt anything is going to become of the current weather we've been having.  In fact, the sun is already out and shining as I write.  I guess it's back to the shadows for me.......

Beautiful Bequia