CUS - CLEAN UNDERWEAR SYNDROME

With 2 days, 5 hours, 38 minutes and 47 seconds to go to lift off, according to my iPad Countdown App we’ve got a busy weekend under way.

We are in the Finals Season, with both Rugby League and Australian Football League – that’s Footy Rules semi-finals this weekend and the World Cup Rugby Union contest across the way in New Zealand. Had to watch both Footy finals of course – there’s eight hours gone - and my team the Mighty Hawks lost by 3 points in the last 3 minutes, so they’re out of next week’s Grand Final. Only watched one of the Rugby League semis to see the local team Melbourne Storm unexpectedly blown away by New Zealand team the Warriors. On the other hand watching the New Zealand All Blacks whacking the French Rugby Union team was a pleasure. Not so sure about Australian Wallabies beating up the US Eagles though. Should have been a higher score.

Apart from all this sports ‘activity’ – if you can count sitting on a couch as sports activity, we are also attending my stepmother’s birthday today! Dear old Lucy will be hitting the 98 year mark on Friday, but as we will not be here, we’re celebrating early. She only has two great-grandchildren, but we’ll all be there with her.

However, a good deal of my non sports activity, non-celebratory time has been taken up with dusting and polishing and vacuuming: cleaning the fridge shelves and chucking out old food.

I have tried to argue logically over the years that this is something of a waste of time – well, apart from the old food. While Fleming discovered penicillin from leaving old stuff lying around, I’m not sure an old pizza slice covered in mould would have the same scientific value, so I agree that anything of the sort should be eaten or dumped earlier rather than later.

But all the cleaning??? By the time we get back in a month’s time the house will be dusty again but before then, or even after then, if we’re shipwrecked in the Baltic, who’ll see it, who’ll be looking in the fridge? Well, burglars might if the house is broken into while we’re away, but otherwise it would be our heirs and executors and to be quite frank, I’m not too fussed as to whether any of these folk think we’re untidy wretches.

This logic has no effect on She Who Must Be Obeyed and so I get on with doing it as thoroughly and quickly as I can. That’s after we’ve worked on tidying up the garden, of course!!

I think it is all down to what I term the CUS – Clean Underwear Syndrome. Although my dear mother was not too concerned about my underwear being in good condition when I left the home, Rab’s Mom had different ideas and always questioned the state of repair and condition of these garments. "They must be clean!", was her mantra. Her logic was that if Rab was bowled over by a bus, it was important for the hospital staff to know that she was a clean and tidy girl from a good home. I personally wondered about the state of anyone’s underwear immediately before being hit by a bus – or indeed afterwards - but never challenged my mother-in-law on the subject.

Talking of clothes, a feature of all cruises longer than five or six nights is that there is a formal evening when everyone gets dressed in their best. We tend to give this a miss if we can – and it is getting easier. There seem to be fewer men on cruises who are prepared to get into a suit and tie, let alone a dinner jacket – and I am counted in that group, although I gather I might be taking a jacket and tie along this time.

There were two Balls on the Reina del Mar after we left Rio de Janeiro back in 1969 and I had lugged along a dinner jacket to go with Rab’s long frock. The first of the Balls was the night out of Santos on the way to Buenos Aires and we finished the evening with a party on deck drinking our cut price gin and rum. (I had a good laugh there – darned autocorrect almost got me. I as using my iPad with autocorrect and it changed that word “party” to “orgy”. We weren’t quite that liberal despite being putative hippies.)

Santos was the second port on the cruise - an overnight journey down the Brazilian coast from Rio de Janeiro. There wasn't much to see in Santos, although we bought some really top clothes there at a very reasonable price (my yellow and orange vertical strip trousers with my matching plaid belt was a sight to see), but the first thing that struck us was the smell. Back then much of the enormous amount of coffee exported from Brazil went through the port. It was said that coffee beans which had fallen into the water as they were being loaded was the cause of the foetid stench. We were not sure that was the only cause and wondered where the sewers emptied?

Apart from the smell, the literal high point of Santos was a small hill described as a "peak" - Mont Serrat - reached by a funicular. We had a good view of the place from up there which confirmed our first impressions - that it was not a very big and rather dull. From there we caught a bus down to the local beach, but it turned out to be a stinking mud flat with a thin covering of dirty sand lapped by filthy water. Not quite up to our expectations or the quality of Ipanema or Copacabana and after a couple of beers we headed back to the cool of the ship.

As I say, we tend not to haul ‘good clothes’ around the world when we travel, although we don’t quite get down to Mike C’s level. He’s one of my cypberpals and when he and Terri were in Melbourne last year and we agreed to meet for a meal he mentioned that it would have to be fairly casual as he only had shorts. I’ve had my DJ with me on two trips since that first one. Once was on a trip to Asia where we were invited to a Christmas Dinner in Hong Kong Club by a the chief executive of an associated company. It was only after we had accepted that we were told that the venue was the Hong Kong Club and that dress was formal – too late to back out then! So I hauled these outfits through Sri Lanka, Singapore and Thailand before finally getting to Hong Kong.

The only other time we got dolled up was for the Millennium Ball on our cruise in the China Sea from Hong Kong to Singapore at the end of 2000 – the True Millennium. We thought it a memorable moment in history but didn’t view it is as quite such a grand occasion as many of the other passengers. One of the joys of travel is the observation of our fellows and there was plenty to observe that night. Although I must say that the pick of the viewings was on a cruise from San Diego to Acapulco. The women in their long gowns and glittering jewels with a good deal of 'big hair' made quite a show, but the men also attracted a deal of attention. One group from Texas in their black satin Stetsons, frilled and pleated shirts, Wyatt Earp ties and patent leather boots took the prize for us.

Countdown check

My iPad Countdown app tells me that it is now seven days 20 hours 10 minutes and five seconds to lift off. My iPad Diary tells me to check the Travel List. This is the standard List I use for every trip we make. It shows the various aspects that need completion from Go to Whoa:

1. Decide on dates and itinerary

2. Make bookings

3. Check Passports for validity

4. Travel Insurance

5. Book boys into kennels

6. Check boys’ vaccination certificates

7. Arrange transport to and from airport/docks

8. Suspend magazine subscriptions

9. Post Office to hold post

10. Get someone to clear post box and hold keys

11. Inform Centrelink

12. Newsagent to suspend newspapers

13. Collect tickets

14. Collect travellers cheques/cash

15. Check on cabins/seats

16. Check travel kit

14. Copies of itineraries to family

Those are all checked off. Good.

Some may regard this as being anally retentive: I am concerned about forgetting something. Have I ever done so? Well……. not really, BUT.. there’s always a first time and as the old saying, goes “A short pencil is better than a long memory!”….although, that’s never actually made sense to me. If you’ve got a long memory, why on earth would this stub of a pencil be better?? You’ve got to find the pencil – difficult because it’s only a stub, find a bit of paper, remember what it was you were going to write as a note, then recall where you put the paper when you remember that you’d written a list of things to do. If you’ve got a long memory, you carry that round with you like a spare hard drive. No worries.

I actually have an undeserved – well I think it is undeserved – reputation for being careless about where I leave things and losing things. Here is the evidence: you be the judge, bearing in mind that this is over a period of more than half a century of travel:

Abandoned items: Ghastly carving of a ship presented to me in Papua New Guinea

Stolen items: my wallet in Athens, two wallets from Rab’s handbag in Harare and Melbourne

Permanently lost items – all different occasions: one hairbrush, one pair of pyjamas, one Russian knitted scarf (I really regret that one), one windcheater.

Does that lead to a guilty verdict, I ask you. “No!”, would I think be a universal answer, so why the reputation of carelessness? Four separate items are at the root of this slur on my character:

1. I was on a business trip to Johannesburg and was heading home to Harare. My ‘little sister’ Jennie had offered to take me out to the airport, swearing by all that was holy to her (food and Burmese cats, would, I think fit that bill) that she would NOT be late. She has an well deserved reputation for being not quite on time. Of course she was late – traffic problems or some such feeble excuse. We dodged our way through the evening rush and made the airport just outside the two hour check-in required for international flights. I grabbed my bags and hopped out of the illegally stopped car as a security guard bore down on us and Jen tore off in a could of blue rubber – with my passport, air tickets and all on the floor in front of the seat next to her. One flight a day resulted in some atmospheric coolness when she came back to pick me up an hour later – no cell phones then.

2. The next two occurrences are similar. In the first case I left my handbag with all our passports, tickets, credit cards etc on the counter in the Lufthansa office in Munich, realised my error in a fairly short time and recovered the bag. No problems there. Outcome not much different when I left the bag on a seat at the open air theatre at Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen. We had a great lunch and afternoon there and ended the day by watching the free variety show which was good fun. We happily wended our ay back to our hotel and as we were deciding what to do about an evening meal, I discovered the absence of the blessed bag. I didn’t pause for the rocket I knew would be heading my way, but out sped that missile in my journey back to the Gardens. Where the bag was waiting for me to collect it. That provided the best defence, but I still copped a fair bit of a tongue lashing.

3. The final accusation is the unkindest cut of all. I love jewellery but can wear little in this anti-peacock society. My little peahen has profited from this and has some nice pieces that we’ve collected over the years. Most stays at home when we travel but the Millennium Ball on the cruise from Hong Kong to Singapore brought out some of the better pieces. Of course they were put away in their black leather case in the safe in the cabin. When it was time to leave the ship, I checked the safe – nothing there; I had my handbag with the passports, tickets etc and assumed Rab had HER jewellery. Errr…..not in fact. Thank goodness she checked the safe again and there, lurking in the darkness was HER jewel case that I should have removed. Pleas for clemency on the grounds that this was not a direct area of responsibility were ignored and the incident was added to the prior conviction list.

Of course I also have a Check List for departure date, not that it helps much. As my family know only too well, I have to check my handbag for passport and tickets etc even though I KNOW they are there. When we lived in Kalk Bay, my brother Steve would often take us out to the airport – while my brother Pad would usually pick us up when we got back. Every time, Steve would say to me about half way to the airport “You have got your passports, have you, Ter?” Knowing the question was coming and knowing that I had checked and double-checked, I’d confirm that all was well, but within five minutes, I would simply HAVE to check again to the mocking laughter of the family.

Oh! And I never mention the security pillow left in Mildura which was only discovered as missing about 100 km down the road. It wasn't my pillow after all!!

Taxis and other diversions

One of the good things about a cruise is the briefing given before a port visit. The very knowledgeable staff summarise what guided tours are on offer and also provide appropriate information about local conditions. We do not go on many of the guided tours, but always pay attention to the advice we are given – and have ever since our first voyage on the Reina del Mar to South America.

The first morning we were in port in Rio, Rab and I took the tour to Corcovado (we later realised that we could have done that on our own at a fraction of the price). It was a drizzly morning so the views from the statue were patchy. Once we got back to the ship we decided to head for Sugar Loaf on our own as the weather had cleared.

We picked up a taxi along the quay – in the days before the War on Terrorism there were no problems getting in and out of ports. And strangely enough I don’t recall ever having read of a ship being hi-jacked back then. We had a slight problem explaining where we wanted to go as we had no idea about the Portuguese language. We had seen Sugar Loaf rendered as Pao de Azucar in brochures but asking the driver to take us to Paroh Akoozare didn’t help. We finally dug out a guide book and pointed “Si! Pahno de Azookar,” he said. Ever since then I have tried to have the name of any destination written down to show a driver – although that didn’t work in Bangkok as Royal Orchid Hotel was written in English script, not Malay. And then there was the driver in Riga who may have been illiterate or just a smartarse. But I digress ….. back to Rio

We had been warned to ensure that the meter was turned on and to ignore any offers of ‘special rates’ from the driver. We recalled this and as we drove off we told the driver to turn on the meter. Shaking his head he said “Special. Only five dollars.” “No! NO!” we said, “Meter.”, pointing to the device. His only response was to start lowering his asking price as we rocketed up the Rua Branca. Finally realising that we weren’t going to get anywhere we told him to stop and bailed out. Leading him to demand payment. It was quite exhilarating in some ways to be standing having a stand up shouting match in two languages as the traffic swerved around us until we were rescued by a passing Carioca who spoke good English. Once we explained what had happened he sent the taxi on its way, stopped another for us and directed the driver to our destination.

The final cost was the equivalent of a few cents as the cruizero had just been devalued – again. That’s something the Brazilians have done fairly frequently over the years. At this time they had merely lopped three zeros off the values so what had preciously been 1,000 cruizeros was now 1. All very confusing, especially as there were three types of notes in circulation – new notes showing new values; old notes stamped with new values; old notes showing only the old values. Since a bus fare might have been 2,500 ‘old’ cruizeros there were many old and very badly worn notes.

The South African Rand was at that time even stronger than the US dollar, so costs were very low for us with an exchange rate of about 7:1. It was quite amusing for us to see that not every traveller understands currency rates. On the last day in Rio we were buying some drinks to keep the cost of our planned party on the ship down. A litre bottle of what was said to be gin cost the equivalent of 25 cents, so we had quite a party. But while we were in the bottle store, a tourist travelling on the France, which was also docked, came in to buy a bottle of Scotch. He was of the school which believes that the louder you shout at a foreigner, the easier it will be for them to understand. I always feel like saying “They are not deaf, just not Anglicized.” I did tell our friend Liz that in Istanbul when we landed up there with her as she shouted at the man in the restaurant who failed to understand her question about the ingredients of the dish she was pointing to. Given the fact that Turkish men are not renowned for being SNAGS - Sensitive New Age Guys – and the fact that there was a cleaver within handy reach, I felt that yelling aggressively might be counter-productive.

Anyhow this bloke, after a deal of pointing and shouting managed to get the Scotch he wanted in the quantity he wanted. Now to pay. All prices were marked in cruizeros, so he simply took a wad of US dollars out of his pocket and fanned them out asking the shopkeeper to take the price. The lighting in the shop was not very bright, but I could spot the gleam in the shopkeepers eye from where I stood. He carefully started extracting notes, watching his customer’s face for any reaction, finally judging that he might be reaching the limit at a price equivalent to about ten times the actual marked price. Both parties seemed to be very happy with the bargain. We didn’t buy Scotch ourselves, so I have no idea if the liquor he bought was actually related to Scotch. Our gin was certainly just poorly flavoured cane spirit.

The concept of bargains is one that have caused us some amusement over the years, perhaps none more than the man on the cruise we took from Hong Kong to Singapore to see in the Millennium – the proper Millennium – 2001. He proudly showd us the Rolex he had bought in the market. He said he knew it was a fake, but he had been told that some fakes were better quality than others and the vendor had assured him that this was an excellent fake, which is why he was prepared to pay over the odds for it. How that lucky salesman must have smiled. Not sure if the watch stopped before we got to Ho Chi Minh City.

Apropos the taxi fight, we had another in Buenos Aires later on our trip. Again we had boarded a taxi at the docks to head into town for a meal at what was said to be the best steakhouse in the world. Argentineans eat even more meat than US citizens and the servings, when we finally got there, resembled small calves on the enormous platters. But we had to get there first and after making sure the meter was on, we set off. The taxi driver seemed pleasant and we seemed to be headed in the right direction – so far so good. But when we got to our destination he asked for a fare about 15% higher than that shown on the meter. Off we went again, this time in our non-existent Spanish versus this non-existent English. Again a passerby saved the day. He explained that the fares had all been increased the day before, but the meters had not been re-calibrated and pointed to a notice to this effect – in Spanish of course – in the cab. So we paid up with apologies and left with smiles all round.

Over the years we’ve had a few run-ins with tax drivers. There was the London cabbie who took me for a long ride through the suburbs and when I asked him if he had misunderstood the address I asked him to take me to. That made him furious but I gave him a tip to show it didn’t really bother me. The pound tip I gave him whistled past my ear as I walked away and was caught by the doorman. I said he could keep it. And the bloke in Warsaw ….again a digression – and back to Rio.

Sugar Loaf was terrific, although at that time I was somewhat wary of heights. Not entirely acrophobic or even vertiginous, but uncomfortable with the thought of long drops in flimsy cable cars which had parted company from their cables. And just how good was the maintenance? All went well however and I was most amused to listen to Rab chatting away to a Carioca, who spoke no English, explaining that we were from South Africa. Her key to gaining understanding was reference to Dr Chris Barnard, who had recently carried out the first heart plant – mimed very well by Rab. This while munching on churros calientes – a new flavour taste for us.

The local foods, drinks and (when I used to smoke all those years ago) cigarettes have always been such an integral part of our travel enjoyment. There were many new flavours and ideas we came across while we were in Rio. Fresh fruit drinks – con leche (with milk) or con aqua (with water) were a wonderful surprise and dealt with the tropical heat very well – as did the local beer Brahma Chopp. Prawns in batter sold from street vendor’s stands, so many foods flavoured with coconut and delicious. Lipsticks and nail polish in colours never dreamed of in staid old South Africa. And the clothes! Wow! Bearing in mind this was the Age of Aquarius and Hippiedom was King, what was available was amazing – and so cheap. I’m sorry to say that the only shots we have of ourselves at that time are on old 8 mm movie film (must convert those sometime); while those on slides have alas succumbed to the rigours of moving around the world over the last forty plus years.* Those striped trousers with the checked belt, topped off by a necklace of horses teeth was something else, man…..

So much to see, so much to do. We caught a bus to Ipanema – and the girls were there, tall and tanned and young and lovely, wearing the most amazing swimming costumes. Two piece costumes had by then been allowed in South Africa and there were even some bikinis – but these outfits!! We have all become inured to dental floss and small modesty patches for women on beaches over the years, but we’d never seen anything like these girls and their undress before. We had a couple of lovely swims and topped of a great day with an excellent meal on the balcony of a restaurant overlooking the Copacabana.

* Eureka! I find that it is time consuming, but not too difficult to transfer from VCR to DVD and then clip shots from the digital record!! As I converted my 8mm to VCR some years ago......well, I tried clipping a couple of shots .... and although they're grainy, they're the record:-)

You Must Be Very Rich.....

Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings……. We were fortunate today in having both our grandgirls for the day. As we drove back to our house this morning, discussing this and that, one piped up apropos our forthcoming holiday. “You are very rich, Granny.” “Why do you say that?”, responded Gran. “Because you are always on holiday!” came the chorused reply amidst shrieks of laughter from the two rascals.

I don’t think they’re the first ones to wonder how we managed to undertake all the journeys we have done without landing up in the poorhouse. The answer is a mixture of luck, good fortune and the ability to answer the door when good old Opportunity came a’knocking.

We did comparatively little travel after our first cruise to South America in 1969. There was a house to buy and a family to start. We always thought that three or four children would be a good number – most of my aunts and uncles had two pairs and I have three siblings. That was not to be. There were problems and when our son Matt was born, we rejoiced even though it was clear that he might be growing up to be an only child.

We moved around Southern Africa a fair bit – back and forth between Durban and Cape Town with my work and to see family – Rab’s home town is Durban. We had some stops in East London to see my extended family – my cousins with whom I had shared a home during World War II, when the men were away. I also had some business trips to Namibia, Malawi and Rhodesia (where I had ended my schooling in 1957) helping out with problems for the subsidiary companies owned by the South African company for which I worked. This was in turn a subsidiary of an international British insurer. There was only one sea voyage in these years – a short five day sailing from Durban to Cape Town with stops in East London and Port Elizabeth.

Of course we hadn’t forgotten our overall plan, but felt that we needed Matt to be a bit older before we started any long-distant expeditions. He was nine years old when the first opportunity turned up. At a dinner party in 1980, the London-based Director, Dennis B with specific responsibility for what were termed Overseas Territories (mainly the bits and pieces left of the mighty British Empire) mentioned a scheme he was starting. This would be aimed at encouraging young men with some talent in these Territories to put up their hands for Overseas Service. Until then it was almost unheard of for anyone but an Englishman to head up an Overseas Territory.

Dennis felt that this meant that good people and ideas were being overlooked, due mainly to the NIH syndrome – Not Invented Here. Having been told I might be considered for this, I put up my hand. What a way to get to see some countries in other continents!

Well, not quite immediately. The first step proposed was to test my mettle in Zimbabwe, as Rhodesia was about to be named. Rab was not very keen. She had visited Rhodesia with her family as a child but was very concerned about the future of the newly independent country – and the fact that virtually every person of European descent was anxious to get out. But…the more we thought about it, the more we realised that this might be a step to get out of South Africa. At that time it seemed almost inevitable that the ever increasing civil unrest was headed for a full on civil war. Were we jumping out of the frying pan into the fire; or was the fire out in Zimbabwe and being fuelled up and stoked in South Africa? Oops, there I go digressing again….. I’ll get back on track.

We landed up going to Zimbabwe for what turned out to be the happiest years of our life. It is a wonderful country with very pleasant friendly people and I’ll certainly not even begin to digress into the awful political mess that has resulted there from something that is a great deal more complex than “Mad Mugabe” as is implied in the sound bite media.

Before taking up my position in Harare, I attended a course in England and we took the opportunity, since my fare was being paid, to make our first visit as a family to Europe and America North and South. Rab and Matt flew in to Germany where our friend Jan put us up in Bad Godesburg and I met them there after my course was concluded. I was lucky to have found an excellent travel agent who started to show me some of the tricks of the trade. The round trip mentioned cost less than $5 more than a straight return ticket – and two nights in Rio de Janeiro were thrown in the cost of the ticket.

One of the great advantages of working in an Overseas Territory was the mandatory requirement of an annual visit to Head Office in London. The norm for England based expatriates was for the fares for the entire family to be met by the company. I wasn’t that lucky, but was fortunate to get Rab’s fare paid, leaving us only to find Matt’s fare. The Company kept a number of flats in London for the use of staff which kept the costs down and they were very good about entertaining us, supplying tickets for the theatre for any shows we chose to see. Although much of this largesse was because Overseas Territories were regarded as hardship posts there was also a recognition that it was extremely difficult to obtain foreign currencies in countries like Zimbabwe.

Just to digress very briefly here. It is difficult for anyone who has not lived with foreign exchange regulations to understand that it was simply not possible to

(a) legally take the local currency out of the country

(b) acquire foreign currency for a greater amount than that laid down by the government

(c) use credit cards for payments outside the country, since there were no credit cards

During the time we were there, the annual amount allowed by regulations rose to $600 per annum from the $150 it was when we arrived. It was possible to apply for a greater allocation for business trips, but these applications were rarely granted. We learned all manner of tricks to stretch out miserly allowances and find ways of obtaining funds.

During the seven years we were in Zimbabwe we made more than seven trips as, apart from the normal annual visit, there were some special conferences – wives were required to attend these. It was also very important for me to attend a number of conferences for African and so-called Third World countries as Zimbabwe joined the international insurance world after decades of isolation during the Independence War. On one such trip to Kenya and the Seychelles, I met Lars Bengtsson, which was the start of a wonderful friendship. We had planned to meet at a conference in Beijing the following year, but regrettably I was not able to convince Head Office of the essential nature of such a conference, or indeed the one held in Rwanda where Lars was fortunate to see the Mountain Gorillas. Can’t win them all.

I had also established good relationships with reinsurers in Switzerland, Germany and Sweden and of course annual meetings with these good people were essential, usually in conjunction with the annual visit or a conference. All of them understood the financial problems and were all very generous in providing accommodation, meals and in a number of cases, some wonderful side trips. One such example was a visit to Helsinki from Stockholm arranged by our very good friend Lars.

Having completed what I had been required to do in Zimbabwe, I was transferred to Australia, still regarded as an Overseas Territory although with less ‘hardship allowances” being provided. Again there as the annual requirement of a Head Office visits and conferences. There was an enormous advantage in these visits over those from Southern Africa – once you have paid for a ticket from Melbourne to London, you can go anywhere in the world for the same price!! There were no prohibitions on taking annual leave in conjunction with the Head Office visits, so we were able to visit many wonderful places with only the cost of accommodation for our account.

After leaving corporate employment – there’s a story that I’ll tell some time!! – I set up my own business and was again very fortunate to find some customers in countries other than that in which we were living. Some paid fares directly as part of my contract with them and if they didn’t, well, the cost of the fares was an offset and deductible from my taxable income, again achieving a significant discount in the cost. One of the most interesting was on the island of St Helena which is slap bang in the middle of the South Atlantic almost equidistant from the coasts of Africa and South America, Regrettably it has no airport, so we were forced to take the last Royal Mail Ship – RMS St Helena – to and from the island for seven years. A five day trip each way out of Cape Town. What a chore, but it had to be done.

Finally retired, we thought our travelling days were done, but……re-calculating the actual costs incurred in living as pensioners as opposed to the theoretical costs, we realised that perhaps, just perhaps, we could afford a trip or two. So we have.

So….perhaps not so rich in financial terms, but very rich in memories.

We Go To Rio

As I was dropping off to sleep last night, my mind was crowded with memories of our time in Rio during our first cruise together, back in 1969.

The ten days from Cape Town had been spent lying like so many lizards in the sun – no one had told us then how that would cut our lives short – sipping on cold beers, eating great food, laughing at the antics of the entertainment crew, dancing the night away and…. well, just generally enjoying ourselves as you do on a cruise. Now we were approaching the coast of Brazil for our first stop – Rio de Janeiro.

We’d crawled up from our cabin in the bowels of the ship before dawn. Huddled on the foredeck with other sleepy passengers we could see the craggy coast sliding towards us on a cloudy morning. I don’t think any of us had realised the height of the cliffs guarding Guanabara Bay on which Rio sits. The gap we were heading for was narrow but beyond that we could see ranges of mountains. The grey light was fading and the day was becoming brighter when, in a very theatrical heavenly gesture, the clouds parted and like a spotlight, the morning sun shone on the state of Christ The Redeemer – Corcovado - just long enough for us to get a couple of long range shots. Unforgettable and certainly among the very best of the many memorable sights we’ve seen.

The other very happy memory of Rio is, not surprisingly for those who know us, related to food. At the end of every trip, usually as we’re waiting at the airport heading for home, we try to evaluate the high spots of the trip – best meal, best experience, best view – and try, often with considerable difficulty, to slot in the latest of these into the very much longer list from previous travels.

There is no doubt about some items. Rab is certain that she will never have a better pizza than the one we watched her eat at Saltsjöbaden outside Stockholm. I still can’t make up my mind whether the Schweinhaxe I devoured in Cologne last year was better than the one I enjoyed with gusto in Swakopmund in Namibia – and what about the Gravadlax on our first visit to Stockholm – and Lars’ Baltic Herring Pie and…. But there I go, digressing again. Back to Rio.

We’d teamed up with some other young folk on the ship and had agreed that we’d all go out on the town the first night we were in port. We went our own way during the day –there are some good stories about that! – and met for drinks in the late afternoon. One of the couples was bubbling over with enthusiasm about the guide they had met – a university student by the look of him – and his plans to take us to a German Beer Hall that night. They reportedly did a mean Schnitzel there. It’s always bit awkward being the dissenters in a crowd of enthusiasts and so after objecting as politely as we could – and offering in vain to cook schnitzels for all back in Cape Town we agreed reluctantly to go along.

Unfortunately, after a hair raising rise on a speeding bus, the venue was closed when we got there. Undeterred, the lad suggested that he knew of an even better place and led us through some rather dodgy byways and lanes to what looked for all the world like a Steakhouse that wouldn’t be out of place in Cape Town. The proprietor, who may or may not have looked like the guide, welcomed us with open arms and invited us to be seated, putting a glass of curiously coloured liquid by each place. “Tigers Milk”, the guide told us and we were urged to drink it down while the beers were opened. As the glasses were topped up again, Rab and I asked “How much?” “No, no, don’t worry, this for you.” came the response.

As the only ones with any experience out of South Africa, we suggested that we should get some pricing in place before we ordered the meal – there were no menus – but were assured that it was a very cheap place to eat. Only a dollar or two (this was 1969) – and the steak was the best in Brazil. Again we felt we had to go along with the now slightly sozzled group who were all somewhat upset when the bill came with a price that was well above the estimate, especially when the expensive Tigers Milk was included. I think we all blew several days budgeted spending on that meal.

All of which made us ensure that everyone knew that we were not going to the German Beer Hall the following night with the mob and would make our own way to a Brazilian restaurant of our own choosing.

Finding a suitable restaurant is never too difficult for us in a foreign spot. We just ask the locals where they eat. That usually ensures that we find a reasonably priced meal serving the kind of food we might not get back home. And so it was in Rio. We were in a jewellery store in the Rua Branco admiring the stunning work and stones when we got chatting to the charming young lady behind the counter. We thought she was an American living in Rio as she had a soft US accent but she assured us she was a Carioca as the proud residents of Rio identify themselves. She recommended a restaurant – Chale – and gave us directions how to get there. She assured us we would not be disappointed. And we weren’t.

The suburb where we found ourselves that night was not well lit. The driver of our taxi – a Volkswagen Beetle as all Rio taxis were at the time – pulled up outside what seemed to be an imposing mansion and gestured that we had arrived. Well aware of the potential dangers that can lurk in unfamiliar places and the difficulty we might have in getting a taxi back to the ship, I stayed by the car while Rab went to investigate matters further. She was back in a flash and I thought we’d be headed for home but the smile on her face, once I could see it through the gloom made me realise that she approved.

We paid off the taxi and crunched up the brord driveway. At the double doors of the stately home stood two small boys dressed in the formal page boy outfits of the previous century, holding flaming torches. The maitre d was in tails and the waitresses (thank goodness we didn’t have to call them waitrons then) were gorgeous Cariocas in floor length hooped skirts, gliding round the elegantly furnished rooms, romantically lit by candles. No one spoke English so ordering a meal caused some laughter as the staff demonstrated the main ingredients – fish, chicken, coconut, peppers….

As we sipped our local wine – we could indicate bianca so at least that was the right colour – the sounds of a guitar being gently strummed came floating into the room, followed shortly afterwards by a handsome balladeer who strolled through the tables singing a Portuguese version of “Those Were The Days”. I think that was the first time Rab said she could die happy and she still goes weak at the knees remembering the night.

The food was excellent, the price was right, the taxi was there when we needed it and we boarded the ship in a state of euphoria. Certainly a night to remember.

Have Genes Will Travel?

Since we’re only leaving two weeks today – or as my Countdown App on my iPad says, more precisely 2 weeks, 3 hours, 43 minutes and 6 seconds - I thought I’d practice using this blog and perhaps provide a bit of background to our meanderings over the years for the benefit of readers who don’t know us well.

Discussions on the relative inputs of Nature and Nurture in moulding us has been of passing interest to me for many years. And in this context I have wondered just how much of our interest in travelling arise from genetic components. Why do some people move restlessly around the planet while others are happy to put down roots and stay where they are?

A book I read a year or two back raise some points that made a deal of sense to me – that book was nature via nurture by Matt Ridley. His theme was that although we each have a genetic proclivity towards certain actions and behaviours, these need some kind of ‘trigger’ to get them up and going.

Using this approach, and various bits and pieces of data that had accumulated in my memory over the years, it seemed to me that most people did not have what I thought of as a ‘travel gene’. The majority of mankind are, and have for centuries, been content to live and die within a fairly small radius. One genetic study around the Cheshire Gorge in England showed an amazing number of people with genetic fingerprints going back centuries all from within a radius of about ten miles. So why do some people move a good deal more than ten miles? And more pertinently, why do Rab and I and my siblings, all of whom have roamed the globe rather more than most people do? At one time my three siblings and I were living on four separate continents!!

My first thought was that the mere fact that people living away from their ancestral lands was a prime indicator that they might have the travel gene. This putative thought was derailed momentarily by an Australian study suggesting that about 80% of people in Australia lived within 20 kilometres of where they had been born. This seemed to clash with the idea that Australians were great travellers, but in fact the majority are not. The ones who do travel, travel frequently. The majority do not travel much beyond their State boundaries.

Personal experience endorses this. At the dizzying peak of my corporate life the domestic airline pilots went on strike, which made moving around this vast Australian continent a bit difficult. I wanted to meet with my senior State managers on some urgent issues and in a masterstroke decided to have the meeting in New Zealand – only a two hour flight away. Couldn’t do that because none of these men had passports!!

But…..maybe this lack of enthusiasm for travel was because, despite the fact that the Australian population is made up largely of immigrants, they did not have the travel gene. Their voyage to the Antipodes may not have been entirely voluntarily. This was especially true of the Founding Fathers, but many of the later arrivals had been driven from their homes by war or other major events. Uprooted, they weren’t going to move again.

But I digress, as is my wont. Back to us and why Rab and I are peripatetic.

The strongest evidence I could adduce to support my travel gene theory came from my brother Steve’s genealogical work, primarily on our maternal side. He started there because it was easier to obtain the information he was looking for. My maternal grandmother’s father was definitely a volunteer voyager. He was essentially a mercenary, or as he might have been categorised in those days, a soldier of fortune. Of Irish stock he was heading for a career in accountancy when he was diverted by a call to arms to fight the Border Wars in the Cape Colony in South Africa. But there was less evidence for my maternal grandfather. His family seemed at first glance to come from a fairly settled stock. A doctor in country Denmark, it seemed that he moved, perhaps unadvisedly, to a war zone in the Cape Colony and all because he had been persuaded to do so my a relative and because Denmark was suffering a financial crisis.

Looking further back up this branch of the family tree revealed the truth. Large doses of enthusiastic travel through the centuries. Perhaps the best example being Toger Abo who was a captain in the Dutch East India Company in the eighteenth century and who met his wife in 1781 in Cape Town of all places on his way back from a voyage to the Spice Islands which are now Indonesia. That would likely have given his direct descendants a double dose of genetic material - and that was evidenced by their spread across the globe in the decades that followed.

Added to that, my father volunteered to leave his homeland of England. It is difficult to trace his ancestry because his father was born in India where his grandfather was working as a civil engineer – further evidence of a high probability of a travel gene for my money. Rab’s father was also the son of a voluntary immigrant to South Africa who recognised an opportunity greater than those available in England.

That seems to indicate a high probability of the ‘nature’ side – of having travel genes. So what was the trigger to start us moving? Well, both of us moved around a fair bit as children – I went to half a dozen schools – travelling by steam train and ship. We both remember the excitement of those voyages. We both went to Europe for a year or two before we met, travelling by ship again and having a great time. I think it was that background that kicked the genes into action. And since we shared that kind of background, how could we fail to move on as opportunities arose to do so? The first joint cruise we went on was to South America. We were thinking of buying our first house and sought advice from my mother. She urged us to travel while we could – and so we did. Thirty days on a ship, ashore in Rio de Janeiro, Montevideo, Buenos Aires – what a ball!!

And with that kind of background, how could we fail to move on as opportunities arose to do so later in our lives?

Back on the Marco Polo

We had a wonderful trip in December 2010. We cruised the Rhine in the coldest winter in 60 years and saw all the snow we were hoping for - this may be the subject of a future blog, if this one works!! When we got back home, Rab (my darling wife) said firmly, "That's it! No more overseas travel. Future trips must be confined to Australia and New Zealand." We even went so far as to have a good look at motor homes, so we could travel with our dogs.

Then......while browsing around on the Net, some time in May 2011, she spotted some entries for cruises on the Marco Polo. We had a wonderful Mediterranean cruise on board Marco Polo about thirteen years ago (that may also be the subject of a future blog!) and had thought the ship had been decommissioned. Turned out it had, but only for a couple of years and it was now back in business to excellent reviews. It is not too big and it still looks like a ship and not one of those floating blocks of flats. AND .... there were two cruises, back to back, on offer at what seemed to be a very reasonable price, especially as the Aussie dollar was soaring and exchange rates were excellent.

I never need more than the slightest hint of the possibility of a journey to hop onto the Net and I was soon off like a rocketing pheasant. We got two quotes from local travel agents (and Harold, our pal in Cape Town, just in case!) and I also contacted the primary agents in Britain and negotiated a very good deal.

So...the cruise was affordable, but how about getting there? Initial enquiries were not promising. We just couldn't find anything reasonable - fares of $7,000 - $12,000 were not in our budget. And then....

........we got an e-mail from Malaysian Airlines with a Special Offer: One Week Only!! for members of their "Enrich" frequent flyer programme. Essentially it gave us a 50% discount - two tickets for the price of one. And a low price to boot. Although the flyer said that we had to book on line, our travel agent advertises that they will beat any price. So off to them for a further 5% off - and 15% off the insurance.

The cruise leaves from Tilbury, so we found what seems to be a good hotel nearby and our pal - my 'little sister' Jennie Lee will pick us up at Heathrow and spend the night with us before we board the ship. The last item was to arrange insurance which was a bit of a problem. The insurers wanted medical reports: I had just changed doctors; my cardiologist was away on a conference; when he returned he gave incorrect information. But I got some cover in the end - expensive but essential - limited to $100,000 and costing $250. But better than nothing.

We downloaded the Excursions on offer. Some were pretty pricey - and long. The day trip to Berlin is 12 hours, mostly on a coach!, and costs £135 each. So I think we'll be giving that a miss. Fortunately there are other interesting trips that day - it's the Warnemunde stop and we'll likely book one of those. As we have done we'll likely do our own thing at most ports but it's nice to know what is available. We'll have to go on an organised trip in St Petersburg as the Russians still require visas for individuals. Rab is also a bit concerned about personal safety in Morocco where she says she would feel uneasy about the potential for crime. This from someone who has travelled to many places with very poor reputations for safety.

It still amuses me how cautious we are with these things, despite having budgeted cautiously, but that's our style. Somewhat cavalier at times: careful at others:-) We'll make up our minds about the rest of the trips on the ship as we have done before. Three weeks to go!

Introduction

When we were first married, long, long ago we were living in Cape Town. At that time the Suez Canal was closed and all the cruise ships used to have to round the Cape of Good Hope to get from the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean.

Many of the travellers on these ships were what are now politically correctly termed "senior citizens". Back then we just thought they were old; so old that they couldn't even get off their vessels to see the magnificent scenery that is the Cape Province.

We decided then and there that we would try to travel when we were young and could enjoy the experience, leaving later years to look back on our adventures. Forty four years later, we're still travelling and enjoying it. Although if truth be told, there have been a couple of occasions of late where we have taken a day off from the excursions on a cruise. It's not that we're ageing, just a little tired sometimes.

I don't know how this will work out, but I thought I would try to start with our current plans, so here goes.