Tuesday, 25 December 2012

Beef Pun

My finest moment of 2012:

Father: (on realising we didn't take the beef out to defrost in time for Christmas Eve Vietnamese Feast) Hmm... Emma... we might have to buy some more beef.
Me: don't you think it'll be ready in time?
Father: not sure... it might be... it is only a small lump...
Me: shall we risk it for a brisket?

HAHAHA.  I am hilarious.

Next update = The Frenchie Challenge.  Will he be able to get the words 'beach', 'sheet', 'focus' and 'hassle' into one sentence in front of my parents in an accent that renders all of these words hilariously rude?  Your suggestions for the perfect line in the 'Comments' box, please.


Wednesday, 5 December 2012

2 hours 34 minutes

Good morrow, blog readers.  It is my happy duty to inform you that I did not die on the steps of Angkor Wat, as was anticipated this weekend.

For those of you who do not have Facebook and are only interested in the results (countless jokes about a certain school in a certain town just outside the M25 could be made right now) instead of the emotional and epic journey from kilometre 1 to 21, I managed to do it in 2 hours 34 minutes - 4 minutes over my target time, 26 minutes before the Cambodian race officials show up with their giant road sweeper to clear up leftover runners on the brink of expiration.  You may now stop reading.

Frenchie, who has missed his calling as a paparazzi photographer, managed to document some key moments, through which I will now commentate as a director does on those really boring DVD features:

 At around 6:05am, whilst stretching, I thought that now would be an appropriate time for the poo-face.

At around 6:15am, after I had finished stretching, it was time for tourist photos.  I figured, at this point, I could always just wait until everyone else had started running and the track was clear, and then get Frenchie to take some photos of me in running freeze-frames, and then I wouldn't have to suffer in agony for 150 minutes.

This is just after setting off.  I am pleased because my legs are capable of putting themselves one in front of the other, after all.

About three minutes later, I saw the wheelchair racers wheeling off into the sunrise (they started before us) and I welled up and thought, in a dramatic and emotional interior voice, 'If they can do this, Emma, so can you!'  And then I may or may not have picked up the pace.  I'm guessing not.


The Hoff looks entirely awesome at around 6k.  An admirable time of 1 hour 40 something, but he's done it before, which explains the 50 minute gap in our finishing times, right?







The Eggplant Man at 6k.  Frenchie became obsessed with this guy - and all the other people dressed in enormously hot costumes.  Crazy.



 Hooray Mr. Reynold's Love Child!  Mr. Reynolds would be proud if he knew a) he had a 27 year old son and b) his son was running a half marathon following a training schedule that looked a little like this:

Monday: beer
Tuesday: beer
Wednesday: think about running
Thursday: beer
Friday: run - beer

He still beat me, though, so we have figured out that if I train extra hard next year, and he drinks more beer, we can be running partners.

Me at 6k.  Yes, a good while after the Eggplant Man has run past: he beat me, too.

My thoughts at this point: 'This is amazing!  Look at us all running together as some form of international, awesome, running community!  My heart is full of joy and excitement and good feelings for humanity!  Running is the best!'  I think the Disney tunes had just started at this point, and the endorphins and ibuprofen and Haribo were doing their job properly.

At around 9k, my iPod decided to die and the terrible truth of a half marathon was revealed.  Instead of a bass-heavy, pounding, upbeat soundtrack to what I thought was an incredible achievement, I realised that all around me, grown men were being metaphorically raped by the terrible trauma they were putting themselves through.  Sounds I never want to hear, repetitively and at regular intervals from fit-looking, healthy, grown men and women ever again:

Huuh, huuh, huuh, huuh!

Eh!  Eh!  Eh!  Eh!

Whoooo.  Whoooo.  Whoooo.  Whoooo.

Haaaa.  Haaaa.  Haaaa.  Haaaa.

I also didn't want to hear my feet slapping against the floor, grinding down my joints and promising, with every footfall to reduce me to a zimmer-frame user by the age of 32.  I stabbed desperately at my iPod, cursed and swore at Apple Inc. who I DESPISE, considered flinging the stupid thing into the undergrowth surrounding a temple, or giving it to one of the small Cambodian children collecting water bottles or standing by the side of the road to high five me as I hissed expletives under my breath, but to no avail.  I hate Apple.  Hate them.  Hate them.

Clearly the Frenchie wasn't too keen on the half-marathon sound effects, either, because he - knowing he had at least two hours to kill as I dragged myself to the finish line - decided to go up in a hot air balloon:

Pleasant.

 By the time he came back, the Hoff and Be My Valentine had already finished, but he was just in time to catch The Hare winning the Big International School's Women's Team Race.  She beat that dude in the blue behind her.  Boo ya, sucks, blue shirt man.  Incredible time of 1 hour 44...? minutes.  Tiffany - could you take her?





And of course, he couldn't have missed his buddies, Eggplant Man, Bear Man, Monkey Man and Teddy Bear Man:





 And then me!  I'm smiling because for the last four years I've watched other people do sport, and got teary watching the London Marathon, and now I too, am as Li Hi as those people.  Almost as Li Hi as Eddie Izzard when he did his Marathon Man.  Right?

I don't think I was suffering enough at this point, so I clearly should have been running faster.

Team photo!  Huzzah!


On the way home, it will please you to hear, that whilst playing the 'test all the perfumes in the Duty Free shop' game, I absentmindedly left my passport and boarding pass on top of a shelf of perfume and dawdled away, daydreaming, until a friendly lady shouted at me, and held my passport up in the air.

Ahaha.  Oh dear.

Wednesday, 28 November 2012

Nevermind

Disaster strikes!  After three months of dedicated training and defeating odds and battling against embedded preconceptions surrounding my ability to do sport, I have strained my right hip flexor.

It hurts in the morning, it hurts in the day.
It hurts walking up the stairs, it hurts when I play (sports, not, say, chess).
It hurts when I sit too long, riding on my scooter.
It hurts when I spend all day watching my computer.

It hurts a week before my race; it's just not fair.
I didn't even know I had a hip flexor when I didn't care
About my Cambodian marathon
(A half - I know - same, same)
But, you know, if you refuse to stretch
You've only got yourself to blame.

Tuesday, 20 November 2012

Vietnamese Lessons

It occurred to me today, whilst powering through the last 2km of my 16km run (see how I just slipped that in there) to Coldplay's 'Viva la Vida' (for the dance that I choreographed to this on an afternoon of marking-induced insanity, please await a Youtube clip that is to go viral), that I have learnt many a strange and wondrous thing whilst in Vietnam.  I shall, hereafter, be referring to these acquired skills, surprisingly transferable and lifelong in their nature, as my Vietnamese Lessons, since my actual Vietnamese Lessons are so far non-existent and I have spent a whole day working myself up to using the word for 'water', but funked on two occasions and just pointed and gave the shop assistant/bar tender the 'encouraging gimp' face in the hope that this would support the communication of my dehydrated message.

However, please find below a long, fascinating, and at times chortle-worthy list of the things that I have learnt, as collated in my head over an hour and fifty five minutes of taking part in a really boring sport.  What is the obsession with running, anyway?  For me, it's just to say I am Li Hi, but what about other people who are so evidently Li Hi that they don't need to prove it by dying on the steps of Angkor Wat?

Whilst in Vietnam, I have learnt...

1. How to ride a moped (with gears).  This is a subcategory in its own right of 'things I have learnt'.  Included in this subcategory are:
1a. How to roll down a curb backwards whilst on a moped, with traffic coming both ways, secure in the knowledge that they will simply swerve around you as you carry on in your own wobbling little world.
1b. How to manoeuvre a moped out of a very tight space without any help from One Who Has Slight Resemblance To Eddie Redmayne.


1c. How to drive directly into oncoming traffic on the Highway of Death and cross said traffic in order to wait at lights to cross four more lanes of oncoming traffic.
1d. How to drive through District 1 with only 90% Fear with either the Frenchie or Risk or Death behind me making soothing noises and assuring me that they feel totally safe and confident in my abilities.

2. How to run for longer than five minutes without dying.
2a. That I have nothing to fear from my own sweat and that sweat is in fact a sign of a functioning body and a Li Hi lifestyle and not the socially inappropriate signal of an over-excited pervert on the underground.
2b. How to placate stray dogs by thinking 'you are a silly dog' over and over again instead of 'holy crap, the rabies!' because they can smell your fear, whilst maintaining a pace of exactly 7kmph.
2c. That sometimes my iPod is generous to me and I have never, in my life, run 17km at a pace of 6.13kmph, no matter what the nice American lady tells me through my headphones.
2d. That my iPhone doesn't enjoy being shoved down my sports bra and sweated all over, and will protest by passing out, refusing to turn on, and downgrading me to a Nokia C1-01.



2e. That on the 2nd December 2012, I will breathe my last, sweaty breath on the steps of some temple or other at Angkor Wat.



3. That English has more than one past tense - three that I'm currently aware of.  Greedy language.

4. How to drink coffee.  I shall now be accepted into the Sunday Morning Sheppard Coffee Circle that involves wrapping a cafetiere in a tea towel and reheating coffee in microwaves and shunning milk and reading newspapers.


5. How to cook without a cooker.  It involves a lot of pasta, rice, and curry-type dishes.

6. That I write way too much on my blogs, but you love it anyway : P

Signing off before I become tedious...

Friday, 16 November 2012

Kuala Lumpar


Now, much to my disappointment, Kuala Lumpar is a metropolitan Malaysian capital city, not a small, hairy, tuneful tribe of creatures that live with a paedophilic chocolate-eating shut-in in a mysterious Victorian factory.  For years I had been under the impression that, as an fighter pilot during WW2, Roald Dahl had somehow ended up in Malaysia and named his delightful creatures after an Anglicised mispronunciation of the place, but after some extensive research (Google), I discovered that he actually trained in Nairobi and Iraq, crash landed over Egypt, fought in Greece and was then evacuated back to Egypt.  So not Kuala Lumpar at all.  In fact, after reading this and pondering for some time on where on earth I'd got this connection from, I realised that it was in fact my Grandfather who had flown aeroplanes in Malaysia, had not crash landed anywhere to my knowledge, and had not been evacuated to North Africa.  However, the link is understandable when you consider that my Grandfather did once own a sweet shop, has a beard reminiscent to those that appear in 'The Twits' and would probably be a chocolate-eating shut-in if my Grandmother wasn't around to beat him with a stick and make him leave the house and wash his cardigans.  So the confusion is comprehensible, I hope.

This jaunt to KL (this is how all the cool kids refer to it) was in aid of a flying visit to Bridget Clay, since I can't get enough of her.  I extended the offer to the impoverished De Tang Clan, but only Kermit was able to take me up on it for one reason or another: Risk or Death wouldn't worry herself with a trip that did not involve some ADRENALIN FUELLED ACTION, the Hare was busy running around in Thailand, because running around in Vietnam had stopped being fun, and everyone else had some other feeble excuse.  My one travelling companion, Kermit would, of all people, be the first to inoffensively and frankly extol the virtues of my moronity, so I went to extra trouble to prove to her that I do not miss every flight that I book myself into, and that I was, in general, a responsible and thinking adult.  Thus, I checked us in online, we got to the airport in time to have a Burger King and even had time to go back and re-check in when we were told at the security gate that our boarding passes were not, in fact, boarding passes, and that online check in saves a grand total of zero queuing time.

Much fun was had when we eventually got to KL.  We saw Bridget Clay:



We saw enormous Buddha's and climbed some steps (because I love steps).  In fact, steps have not made much of an appearance on this blog, which is a shame, because I have a complex and fascinating relationship with steps, that is all Lizzie's fault.  Here are some steps that we climbed:






We saw phallic stalactites, and of course we took photos of them.  I wanted a photo of me touching it, but both Kermit and Bridget Clay walked away when I suggested it in eager tones.



We saw the Petronas Towers from the Kuala Lumpar Tower - a double tourist whammy, I feel:


I look oddly smug and proud in this photo.

Emma: That's right, the Petronas Towers!
Bridget: Eep!
Kermit: Emph!

Then we shopped:





Wow.


And then we felt like this:


Kermit: Hmmmph.











Emma: Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmph.
















So we went for a drink with this view (sorry for blur: night time setting on camera is never good):


Then we ate curry, and in the morning we came home.

... trips where I keep hold of my passport, and hang out with people who don't want to jump into crashing, storming oceans are fun and all, but the blogs always end up being a little lacklustre.  I'll try to do something Li Hi and dangerous at some point in the next few weeks to convince you that my life is more than just indulgent luxury and gallivanting from expat centre to expat centre.

Something that is quite Li Hi, is that I ran 14k in 1h44m the other day.  I mean, that's quite impressive, but I'm getting to the point where I feel I now qualify as a fit, healthy, sporty person, and can therefore no longer boast about running 10k in 1h05m on a week day after a full day's work without sounding like a complete arse...

HAHAHA: 'I feel I now qualify as a fit, healthy, sporty person'.  LOLZ!

Thursday, 15 November 2012

Frenchie Risks Death For Awesome Blog Photo

I personally think this was irresponsible and ridiculous behaviour on his part, as it would have required him to drive at at least 40kph (this is my average pootling pace) during morning rush hour, with just one hand, whilst operating a dangerous vehicle.  It is a miracle that we, and others around us, were not killed.  I will reprimand him most harshly later by refusing to cook, and shunning any more gifts of flowers, bracelets, speakers or books.

Having said this, this photo is AWESOME!



Right?  Right guys?  It's not even ruined by my rucksack-for-minature-people.  In fact, I think the rucksack - especially the bright pinky-purple hues - add if not detract from the coolness of me.  I like the flowy skirt motion and the angle that makes it look like I have some sort of muscle in my upper arm.  Yes.  Yes, I do have muscles.  See how the guy taking off his rain poncho is staring in admiration and fascination at me as I whizz by?

Having a gung-ho, reckless Frenchie around does have its uses then, I suppose.

This photo gives me a double chin, though.  Don't look too close.  It also looks like I'm clenching a small child's helmeted-head between my legs, which is less than appropriate... (and not what is actually happening, I hasten to add):


*Sigh* poor bone structure a fast-approaching old age of lack of definition resulting in confusion as to where the neck stops and the face begins...

Tuesday, 6 November 2012

Hanoi

This weekend I thought, 'Ach!  Living in a beautiful apartment with a swimming pool and a man who collects my rubbish and taxis that wait outside to take me into town and air con and two bathrooms just isn't enough!  I need something more in my life.  I need luxury!  I need hedonism!  I need... a Sofitel!'

So the Frenchie, because he is good like that, took me to the Sofitel Hanoi and I pretended for an entire weekend that I wasn't a poor slob and actually had the manners, upbringing and bank account to rightfully be there.  (I have two out of three of those things, of course: I am a lady, after all).

Turns out that when you go to a Sofitel, the airport pick up looks a little bit like this:

And also includes a free mini bar.  Wow.

Hanoi is nice.  We saw a lake with turtles that steal swords from really old Vietnamese men who go swimming in lakes filled with turtles with their swords.  We saw an enormous stuffed turtle - maybe the turtle that had stolen the original sword a thousand or so years ago.  We saw the old town and bought the prettiest pretties and sat for a loooooong time on the balcony of a tea house and stared at motorists and discovered that a clever person, somewhere, has designed helmets with holes at the back for you to put your ponytail through.  Genius.  We also saw the Temple of Literature, which was, of course, my favourite hang out.

The most incredible part of the weekend was on the way home when our flight was prevented from landing because of an enormous thunderstorm over Saigon.  We had to fly around and around a set of clouds for a good long time, and I'll admit, the turbulence when we had to fly through the clouds was pretty scary.  We tried to land twice, and had to abort.  The motion of the plane when this happens is more than slightly life affirming: down, down, down, down and then the pilot thinks, 'No!' and suddenly UPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP! And UPPPPPPPPPP a bit more and then turbulence and then throooooooough the clouds and then this for a bit longer:


Pretty beautiful.  Have some more:






I hope you all appreciate the picture to words ratio in this post.  Sometimes I do keep my readers in mind... : P

Tuesday, 30 October 2012

International Students Are Hilarious

Miss Sheppard: great, so what else happens in the play?  Yep, Child 1?
Child 1: Joe dies at the end.
Miss Sheppard: yep, he does, sad times.
Child 2: (with genuine concern) Huh?  Wait!  Spoiler warning!  He dies?  (turning to end of play)  Oh my gosh, he dies.

The Day I Left My Passport On A Plane...

Parents: look away.

Once upon a time, there was a foolish young adventurer whose only weakness was unhindered grumpiness when tired. Fatigue was her kryptonite because not only did it make her horribly cranky, it also made her forget about essential items like USB sticks, keys and piles of exercise books.

One night, after her flight from Tawau to Kota Kinabalu had been delayed by an hour because the whole of KK airport was closed, and she had valiantly spent all her strength getting her and some innocent villagers transferred onto an earlier flight, the foolish adventurer arrived at a hostel and was greeted, exhausted, by the receptionist.

It was the dead of night. The receptionist asked for her passport, as is custom. The foolish adventurer searched in her backpack.

The passport was not there.

"I have left my passport on the plane!" she whispered, in a silent, death murmur. "My working visa is in that passport."

Worst of all, that passport had a multitude of cool and awesome stamps from many foreign and exotic countries in it.  That passport was one of the only things that made the foolish adventurer Cool.

After some fatigue-infuriating faff, the foolish adventurer shouted, "I AM GOING BACK TO THE AIRPORT!" and jumped in a taxi where she sat in an intense state of anxiety and dread for a full fifteen minutes.

At the airport, she learnt the following things:
- Flight 6127 on which she had flown had returned to Tawau.
- Flight 6127 would return to Kota Kinabalu between 1:50-2:15am.
- The Passport of Security and Life may or may not be on the plane.

The foolish adventurer thanked the wise informers to whom she had spoken and sat down to wait, watching the clock tick slowly. In the next hour and a half, she learnt and realised the following things:
- Without her passport, she would not be returning to Saigon on Sunday afternoon.
- Her school was going to be really mad at her.
- To get out of Kota Kinabalu she would have to get a police report to get a temporary travel pass to get to Kuala Lumpar to go to the British Embassy (thus missing her transfer) to get a temporary international travel pass to get to Saigon the following day (after an extra night at a hotel in KL and completely new ticket to Saigon) to sit with Vietnamese Immigration officers and hope that they would let her back into the country to work illegally without a visa.
- The flight she had booked to go home at Christmas would be null and void without a passport.
- The only place you can renew passports is the passport office in London, UK, a place she could not get to.

The foolish adventurer did not cry, because she is very brave.

At 2:18am, whilst sitting in the lost and found with Kevin, the lost and found man, Kevin pointed out the arrival of Flight 6127. He directed the foolish adventurer to a door that lead to the tarmac and  pointed to an Air Asia flight. In a move that would never be permitted in the UK, Kevin then left the foolish adventurer to her own devices, whereupon she trotted across the tarmac of a working airport, without a high-vis vest and wondered whether now would be a good time to hijack a plane in a Jason Bourne style end to the story. (She didn't.)

Up the steps of the mobile stairs she crept, to be greeted by some mildly surprised cabin crew. She peered apprehensively into the pocket of seat 31C...

The passport was there.

Thanks be to God. Amen. Here endeth the lesson.

Borneo

Warning: this is really long. Do you want to commit your whole lunch break to it, or do you want to get some friends together and have a dramatic reading on Saturday night with some beers? You can cast people as different voices (Emma, Bridget, Carl, Mike, Agnes Keith, orangutans) and send me photos of your freeze frames so I can guess which scene you are reenacting. If I guess the scene, you win a prize.

After an Earl Grey tea at Harrods in Kuala Lumpar - the first and most delicious cup of Earl Grey, made with real cow's milk, fresh from a cow, that will go off if left for too long (I checked with the waitress) in ten weeks - we finally made it to Malaysian Borneo, or the state of Sabah as it is also known. Our taxi driver apparently doubled up as a tour guide and was incredibly informative during our three hour transfer to our hotel, which was super helpful, but also a little bit of an overload after a day of travelling and excitement of nearly-missed flights. Because this was an action-packed holiday, I will have to use subheadings to organise all the anecdotes into manageable chunks. Feel free to treat these anecdotes like episodes in a series, and come back to them as and when you have time to escape to the jungle-filled landscape that I will now create with my amazing talent for imagery and figurative language...


Kinabalu

This subheading refers to the town, the mountain and the national park. Of the three, we got to only two properly. We knew we didn't have the time to climb Mount Kinabalu, and apparently Bridget and I have a poor track record with tall mountains and mist: by the time we had commandeered a reasonably priced taxi from our hotel to the park gates, and digested our breakfast, the clouds had sat down on the mountain and we stood at the view point and stared at spooky whiteness. Technically, we did see the mountain, but there was an inconveniently dense amount of cloud coverage, so all we saw was this:



Can you see the mountain?

A similar thing happened last year at the top of Toubkal. On this occasion, our failure was due to the fact that neither of us had stopped to realise that in the rainforest, the clouds get tired during the day and so descend to earth for a snooze, soaking everyone on their way down and not because we were walking against a mighty and aggressive wind storm.  Unperturbed, we took a walk through the jungle, which involved much bug-flapping and unexpectedly walking through spider webs and having more inadvertent girly fits about things clinging to us. It wasn't particularly Li Hi, but then the thought and very real danger of leeches (leeches!) is enough to cause even Bear Grylls to have an epileptic spasm of leg-slapping, deet-spraying and entirely useless arm-wiping. Ug. Leeches.


We tried to wait out the clouds, and watched them roll across the landscape like the crests of waves from underneath our raincoats for a while, but eventually gave up and returned to our hotel to sit in sulphur-smelling hot springs whilst it continued to rain. That was pretty cool. Whenever we got too hot, we just got out and stood in the rain for a while to cool down.

The rainforest, by the way, is pretty impressive. It's everything you imagined the rainforest would be like: lots of green and vines and creepers and strange noises and enormous flying bugs and jumping frogs and bats. Pretty rad. We arrived at night time and could just see all the trees poking out of an entire blanket of cloud that had dropped right into the valley. Now that WAS like looking at the ocean. All we needed was an enormous spotlight to shine onto all 4,000-something metres of Mount Kinabalu to see it in all it's glory. Maybe next time.

Sepilok and Sandakan

Remember how I only go places if there's a book involved? Well Borneo was a different kettle of fish: I had to find a book to justify the literary worthiness of the trip and so whilst Bridget has been reading 'In The Shadow of Kinabalu' (morbid death march fest), I have been flicking my way through Agnes Keith's 'Land Below The Wind' (colonial and imperial romp fest). Conveniently her house just happened to be the perfect mini-museum stopping spot after a five hour bus ride and before our expedition into the jungles of Sepilok to see orangutans and other rainforest-type creatures.

Agnes Keith's doodle:

Actual view:




Pretty accurate.

As is always the case with awesome nature-type things, it is difficult to describe them in a way that does them justice. Being less than twenty metres away from six orangutans, including one baby, and a whole hoard of macaque monkeys, including babies and one that jumped up onto the viewing platform and scared the life out of us and almost caused an old Australian lady to fall over (hehe - but we weren't allowed to laugh) is pretty darn cool. There were hornbills flying overhead also. Extra cool. Walking back to the cafe and shop and having one of the naughty orangutans turn up at the reception area and hang out for a bit whilst everyone freezes, unsure of exactly how dangerous a rogue orangutan is, whilst slowly reaching for their camera is also pretty cool.  Wandering down to the Rainforest Discovery Centre and strolling along a canopy walkway to hang out with a giant tree squirrel, some really tall trees and some brightly coloured little birds, all 17 metres off the ground: cool. Pretty cool. But 'cool' is not a very descriptive word. Conclusion: watch more of the Discovery Channel or come to Borneo to hang out in the rainforest with some orangutans. Do it. Nature is amazing.





Mabul (not Sipidan. What's so great about Sipidan anyway?)
So I'll get it off my chest straight away: the start of this leg of the journey was like knowing you were going to get an iPad for Christmas, seeing the packaging in your parents' wardrobe and the gift receipt on top of the microwave and then not receiving said iPad on Christmas day because you don't have a PADI qualification and therefore can't even get a permit to sit on your iPad let alone dive in it.

Translation: mother, father, I don't want an iPad for Christmas.  But I did want to dive off Sipidan and it turns out I can't. Risk or Death made a really big deal out of how amazing it was but when we arrived in Semporna, a nice man named Mike spelt the whole thing out for us, whereupon I genuinely nearly cried. Not exaggerating, I had to check myself and remind myself that I was in public with strangers and it wasn't okay to cry tears of bitter disappointment. Borneo is a really long way away from even Vietnam and I'd come on the understanding that I'd be Discovery Diving Sipidan. Bad times. So when I tell you about my trip to Borneo, do NOT ask, "oh, the diving there's supposed to be amazing - did you dive off Sipidan?". The answer is no, I did not.

After two lunch time beers, some pizza and reassurance from Bridget and Mike, though, I was totally over Sipidan and booked two dives and an overnight stay on Mabul island. Mabul island is like Sipidan's less flashy, chilled out cousin. It has more or less the same stuff to offer, but it's not making a big deal of it: that's not Mabul's style. Sipidan is like the melodramatic frontman. Mabul is like the cool bass player or drummer.

I then had a lot of fun with the medical questionnaire:

Mike: do either of you have any medical issues you think we should know about?
Me: Bridget has a heart murmur.
Bridget: that's right, I do.
Me: (looking at list of questions) Bridget, are your preparing to be pregnant?
Bridget: sadly, no.
Me: do you want to tell him about your dysentery now or later?
Bridget: er...
Me: Bridget only has one lung.

The next day we zipped across the Celebes Sea in a speed boat and arrived at the same time as the rain. It makes no difference though, because you're underwater. I peed in the ocean, Bridget freaked out about equalising her ears. After that, we saw six, that's right, SIX hawksbill turtles hanging out on some coral and some sunken wrecks. One even did swimming and swum above us so that the sun shone through the ocean and made him/her look like the shadow of a sea angel, slowly gliding through the still water. See, told you you'd get some figurative language.

We also saw lots of pretty fish, that we instantly forgot about when we got up onto dry land and were unable to identify on the Diver's Laminated Book of Fish, a shoal of squid, a big, ugly cuttlefish and some form of ray (Charles). Apparently coolest of all, though, was a Flamboyant Cuttlefish that looks like a stone when it's stationary but when it moves, turns into a neon light show and has black and white strips pulse along its back like Christmas tree lights. All the other divers thought we were completely Li Hi for having seen it, even if we were just on a Discovery Dive. We didn't tell them that Bridget and I had crashed into each other underwater or that Bridget had messed up her buoyancy and floated, unawares, to the surface from where Carl had to pull her down by a flipper. Nicht zo Li Hi...

Almost-last-day of the trip was spent waiting for the rain to stop and then SPRINTING to the beach to sunbathe and wandering around the Bajau village on the island and taking photographs of beautiful and interesting things. Here are some for your viewing pleasure:










The last one is my favourite.

Red fish: ARGGGGHHH!
Grey/brown fish: Hmmmph.
Pinky fish: uuuhhh?

Shark bait ooh ha ha.