Stingo
Well-known member
Hi all - Because I cannot get my ISP to take some money off me and open my site again, here is the update I was going to make - minus the photos... Enjoy
Merde is Spanish slang that has connotations with prostitution and that is how I will remember the people of the Cap Verdian archipelago or Crap Merde as I will affectionately call it henceforth. I sure am glad to see the back of the place and the last of it's dust and grime and being constantly accosted by a nation of vagabonds doing their utmost to redistribute my budget in their direction. They're more aggressive and noisier than seagulls squabbling over a scrap of fish. Let it be said that if I were starting all over again, without doubt, I would include Crap Merde in my itinerary but would limit my stay to two weeks. I paid Umberto, the self-styled and self-appointed guardian of dinghy's at the public slipway, too clean the bottom of Stingo and for some reason, he thought a few hours work gave him the right to use my dingy whenever he pleased. A bit like paying a gardener to rake up the leaves and then him thinking that that gives him the right to use your car whenever he wants, without permission. From then on I refused to pay him for guarding my dingy and that's when things started to go missing from it and Umberto, no doubt, now has some rope and a nice quick-release shackle in his custody. If I had been stern with him, and others, to begin with, I am sure there would have been no problem or at least, less of a problem, but then sternness is not part of my placid nature.
And then it was back to life at sea where my only worries were the constant management of the charge in the batteries, water consumption and the occasional failure of gear - of which I had very little. It's a life of absolute peace and tranquillity where nothing can get to you. The Crap Merdians, the Taxman and Pinocchio Blair have no chance of annoying you. You're so far out of reach and perhaps, out of touch that even the boogieman has packed his terror-kit and headed for more promising pastures. When Robin Knox-Johnson became the first person to circumnavigate the world single handed and non-stop, there was a Frenchman hot in his wake by the name of Bernard Moitessier. Not far from the finish line (Plymouth, England), Moitessier realised that he couldn't pip Knox-Johnson too the post and the prospect of returning to civilisation was less preferable than a few more months at sea. That was when he did a u-turn and sailed halfway around the world again, finally stopping in Tahiti where he found himself a few adoring wives and lived happily ever after. Until I'd experienced the peace of being at sea for a longish time, I never understood why he did it. There was a deafening clang when the penny dropped. And then something inconsequential broke and I muttered and cursed the God's that be and thought that being tied up at a marina where I can nip off for a beer would be preferable to the peacefulness of being at sea. How wrong can one be?
Besides the peace of being at sea, I'd thought it would be nothing but blue and a bit more blue, but the broad spectrum of colours was surprising. I had imagined that from a wildlife point of view, living at sea would be very similar to living in a blue desert with nowhere to shelter in a storm and your source of food is not glaringly obvious - especially to someone that is as unsuccessful at fishing as I am. But despite the harsh conditions, there is a phenomenal amount of air-breathing wildlife successfully etching a living hundreds of miles from land. What chance do these turtles and the huge range of birds have of finding shelter in a storm while gasping for another lungful of air?
My most enjoyable day at sea was in the Doldrums. It was flat calm (see the photo below) so I took the sails down so that they didn't flap themselves to death with the rocking motion of Stingo. While they were down, I drifted half a mile back towards Crap Merde ~ a horrible prospect so I started the motor and again, headed south. It then started to rain so I raised the sails so as to catch the rainwater and was able to have a shower under the water running off the boom. I also did a load of washing and topped up the water tanks. It was the best tasting water I've every tasted, probably because it gets sucked up from the sea and dumped straight down again with no chance of being polluted by the smog you find on land. And the best thing about the downpour was that the Crap Merde dust and dirt got washed off Stingo's deck and sails. Soon after the rain had cleared, a huge school of dolphins frolicked under Stingo's bow for about half an hour. Then to top it all, there was a great sunset. Ah, happiness!
The doldrums were between three and five hundred miles wide and oscillated between 04°N and 08°N - a distance of two hundred and forty miles. As I drifted south, so did the doldrums making them even wider. That's probably why it took six days to get through them and I had motored a lot of the way. One of the tactics I employed was to head for the low pressure systems that are the beginnings of a hurricane in the hopes of finding a bit more wind. The tactic didn't work because I didn't encounter a breeze stronger than twelve knots until my eighteenth (and last) day at sea when I had thirty knots. That's probably the reason why I didn't exceed one hundred miles per day until my third last day at sea. My best twenty four hour run was one hundred and fifty three miles and that was on my last day. Very disappointing considering that on other legs, I'd achieve that distance regularly.
On a day that I was feeling particularly industrious, I made my first attempt at baking a loaf of bread. Yes, all the jokes about bricks and chipped teeth apply. Even after the second bakeathon, the jokes still applied. Whoever proclaimed that practice makes perfect, should have added "but practice still bakes imperfect".
Before I left Brighton, I stocked up with more Bully Beef than a reasonable person can be expected to eat in a lifetime (what on earth was I thinking?). At the time, what I hadn't considered was how to cook edible Bully Beef Surprise and after numerous concoctions being tossed overboard in the hopes that creatures lower down the food chain might enjoy it, I finally produced something that tasted vaguely like spaghetti bolognaise. I even had a second helping and was just contemplating a promotion too head chef at the Ritz, when the ratchet on my fishing rod screamed. I had hooked my first fish! It didn't put up a fight or even stimulate me with inspiration for a highly exaggerated Old Man and the Sea style fishing yarn. It was even the perfect size for the pan, but because I'd just eaten and had noticed another fish in Stingo's wake, I threw it back. Did you know that Dorado's go through life with a mate and despite what people say when you've just split up with a girlfriend; there are not plenty of fish in the sea?
During the crossing, I spent a lot of time reading. Prey, by Michael Crichton must rank high on the list of all-time-worst-ever-books. Never before have I read such boringly predictable utter rubbish. I've also read The Great Train Robbery by Crichton and it was an excellent read, which makes it difficult to believe he penned both books. One of the things that happens when a boat arrives in port is a book swap. Being such a proud sort and just so that I wouldn't leave people with the impression that I have poor taste in literature, I tossed Prey overboard. Good riddance. The best book I read and I will probably read it again is The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown. Despite being fiction, it was quite a thought provoker.
At 09° 40' N 025° 38' W, I went for a swim butt naked. At that position, Brazil was just over a thousand miles away to the south west and Africa just over five hundred miles to the north east and the closest land was three miles away. Three miles straight down. There was absolutely no wind at the time so I was able to swim a fair distance away from Stingo. The joke would have been on me if the slightest breeze had materialised, but it didn't. The water temperature was hot away from Stingo, but surprisingly refreshing in her shadow. I never realised that the sun had such an instantaneous effect on the water temperature or perhaps it was a case of feeling the heat of the sun and then the relief of being in Stingo's shadow. Whatever it was, it was a great swim and in hindsight, it was very irresponsible not having a piece of rope tethered between myself and Stingo.
One of the sail batten jammers broke and if I didn't climb the mast and remove the batten, I wouldn't have been able put a reef into the mainsail when the wind came up. So up the mast I went without a safety harness because, being single-handed, there was no one to tether it. I've been up the mast numerous times, but always in the tranquillity of a marina. This was the first time I've done it at sea and it's not a nice experience even in the gentle swell of that day. I don't have a firearm on board, but that day was the first time that I could justify having one; so I could have shot the batten to smithereens and solved the problem without climbing the mast. (For the technically minded, my battens slide in from the luff of the mainsail and the batten was protruding over a spreader, therefore, it prevented me from lowering the mainsail).
On legs longer than twenty fours hours, I never carry alcohol on board Stingo. There was one exception to this rule and that was for crossing the Equator. I had decided to take two beers with me; one for the actual crossing and one for celebrating afterwards. At 22:33 GMT on 19 September 2004, I cracked my first beer and it tasted flat and foul, so I tossed it overboard. The second one was just as bad so it went overboard too. I wonder if Davey Jones likes Spanish lager? It's traditional that the first time that you sail across the equator, the other crew members dress you up and pour gruel or some other horrible mix of fish guts and scales over you. I was going to keep things simple by pouring a little beer on my head. It didn't happen because I had thrown it overboard. So my first equator crossing was a bit of a letdown.
Vertigo: noun a sensation of dizziness, especially caused by heights. Well that's the Oxford dictionary's definition. It is also the disorientation that kills pilots within two minutes of entering cloud. Something to do with the inner ear and your sense of balance and the pilot not having an horizon as a point of reference, therefore he cannot see if he is in a left or right hand turn or if he is climbing or descending and he inevitably corrects the wrong way, then dies. If you want experience vertigo for yourself, without the death warrant, blindfold yourself and get someone to gently spin you on a swivel chair and then tell them which way you are spinning or if you are accelerating or decelerating. Odds are that within minutes, you will be completely wrong. For the first time on Stingo, I suffered from vertigo. It was on a pitch black moonless night and it was so dark that I couldn't see my hands in front of my face. And that is why the air was blue with expletives when I kept falling over, seemly without explanation.
Twenty eight days if you include the Canaries to Crap Merde leg or eighteen if you don't, single-handed, in the hurricane season and in a boat that the experts that have probably never ventured out of the Solent alleged was unsuitable for such a venture. That was my seventh Atlantic crossing. The first six were in the discomfort of economy class of a Boeing 747.
On the 4 October 2004, I will have been gone for a year. After an almost continuous summer and nearly five thousand miles later it's Olá Brazil. This country is good. The people are fun. They break out into a dance for no apparent reason and everyone seems to be naturally happy. Despite what Lonely Planet - South America on a shoestring says, I cannot believe there is a problem with pick pocketing or petty crime. I was sitting at a pavement café and couldn't believe that girls leave their handbags on the tables when they nip off to the loo. I just can't see that kind of lax attitude having a happy ending in London or any other part of the world for that matter. How unlikely is this? I was telling a girl that I had just met at the pavement café that I didn't know where to find a supermarket. She asked what I needed and offered to get it for me if I gave her the money upfront. I only had US Dollars on me so she offered to exchange them at a bank. I gave her US$30 and told her where Stingo was moored thinking I would never see her or my dinheiro again. Wrong. The next morning, there she was with a huge smile and a bag full of groceries and the correct change in local currency. Considering that she earns less than the equivalent of US$100 per month, a 30% bonus must have been tempting. In return, I offered her breakfast in bed but she didn't want breakfast and now I can't get rid of her. She wants to get married and have numerous children and live in a nice house and have a big dog and a swimming pool and...and... And when I ask her if a bloke that has never been married, that doesn't want children and is already forty five is likely to change his solitary ways, suddenly she can't understand English. And with so many nice girls that want to do my shopping for me, why buy the book when you can go to the library?
My first meal in Brazil was at what is known as a per kilo restaurant. You help yourself to a pile of vegetables and a ladle of mystery meat and then the waitress weighs your plate and charges you accordingly. Oh, it was nice to tuck into my first heap of fresh vegetables since leaving the Canaries two and a half months ago (Crap Merde is not known for it's fresh produce - in fact, I can't think what Crap Merde might be known for at all). Within hours, I was feeling great again and was back to my normal flatulent self. Wonderful!
Like any city in Brazil, Fortaleza has a problem with street-children. The difference is that in Fortaleza the authorities encourage them to perhaps shine shoes, sell trinkets or be performers of some description without being intrusive. If they don't comply, the Poder Judiciario (a separate police force that is attached to the courts) cart them away and that means no income for a few days. The PJ's are everywhere and their presence probably has a lot to do with the current lack of crime in the streets of Fortaleza. Wouldn't it be nice if this new scheme succeeded in the long term? The thing I find hard to understand about the powers of the PJ is that besides monitoring the activities of street-children, they also check the identity cards of the females patrons in a bars, but not the males. But then there are eight girls to one bloke in Fortaleza and perhaps I just didn't notice them checking the male patrons.
I haven't cottoned on as to whether there's soon to be a local or general election. Whichever it is, a campaign is just another excuse to party and it appears as if candidates are obliged too sponsor a live concert with free entry and subsidised booze. Who needs more of an excuse than that? Well I certainly don't and what's even more tantalizing is that there is nothing wrong with girls wearing a bikini to the concert and the skimpier the bikini, the more fashionable it is. There was one particular babe that ambled by... in fact it was more like a pair of Zeppelins in a dead heat. Thank goodness my reflective Oakley's can keep my retinas in check. It's just a pity they can't do anything about hiding the stupid grin on my chin.
You've just got to love this place, especially when you hear Brazilian credos like this: Happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory. And summing Brazil up in four words; don't bring your wife.
In the previous anecdotes, I named and shamed a Frenchman that disappeared without paying his debts. Thanks to all of you that sent him nasty emails. Jacques has sent an email apologising for his indiscretion and has sorted his debt out with me. Thank you Jacques. Your apology is accepted.
Until next time. Adiós amigos.
<hr width=100% size=1><font color=blue><A target="_blank" HREF=http://www.stingo.co.uk>http://www.stingo.co.uk</A> - now cruising nowhere near you</font color=blue>
Merde is Spanish slang that has connotations with prostitution and that is how I will remember the people of the Cap Verdian archipelago or Crap Merde as I will affectionately call it henceforth. I sure am glad to see the back of the place and the last of it's dust and grime and being constantly accosted by a nation of vagabonds doing their utmost to redistribute my budget in their direction. They're more aggressive and noisier than seagulls squabbling over a scrap of fish. Let it be said that if I were starting all over again, without doubt, I would include Crap Merde in my itinerary but would limit my stay to two weeks. I paid Umberto, the self-styled and self-appointed guardian of dinghy's at the public slipway, too clean the bottom of Stingo and for some reason, he thought a few hours work gave him the right to use my dingy whenever he pleased. A bit like paying a gardener to rake up the leaves and then him thinking that that gives him the right to use your car whenever he wants, without permission. From then on I refused to pay him for guarding my dingy and that's when things started to go missing from it and Umberto, no doubt, now has some rope and a nice quick-release shackle in his custody. If I had been stern with him, and others, to begin with, I am sure there would have been no problem or at least, less of a problem, but then sternness is not part of my placid nature.
And then it was back to life at sea where my only worries were the constant management of the charge in the batteries, water consumption and the occasional failure of gear - of which I had very little. It's a life of absolute peace and tranquillity where nothing can get to you. The Crap Merdians, the Taxman and Pinocchio Blair have no chance of annoying you. You're so far out of reach and perhaps, out of touch that even the boogieman has packed his terror-kit and headed for more promising pastures. When Robin Knox-Johnson became the first person to circumnavigate the world single handed and non-stop, there was a Frenchman hot in his wake by the name of Bernard Moitessier. Not far from the finish line (Plymouth, England), Moitessier realised that he couldn't pip Knox-Johnson too the post and the prospect of returning to civilisation was less preferable than a few more months at sea. That was when he did a u-turn and sailed halfway around the world again, finally stopping in Tahiti where he found himself a few adoring wives and lived happily ever after. Until I'd experienced the peace of being at sea for a longish time, I never understood why he did it. There was a deafening clang when the penny dropped. And then something inconsequential broke and I muttered and cursed the God's that be and thought that being tied up at a marina where I can nip off for a beer would be preferable to the peacefulness of being at sea. How wrong can one be?
Besides the peace of being at sea, I'd thought it would be nothing but blue and a bit more blue, but the broad spectrum of colours was surprising. I had imagined that from a wildlife point of view, living at sea would be very similar to living in a blue desert with nowhere to shelter in a storm and your source of food is not glaringly obvious - especially to someone that is as unsuccessful at fishing as I am. But despite the harsh conditions, there is a phenomenal amount of air-breathing wildlife successfully etching a living hundreds of miles from land. What chance do these turtles and the huge range of birds have of finding shelter in a storm while gasping for another lungful of air?
My most enjoyable day at sea was in the Doldrums. It was flat calm (see the photo below) so I took the sails down so that they didn't flap themselves to death with the rocking motion of Stingo. While they were down, I drifted half a mile back towards Crap Merde ~ a horrible prospect so I started the motor and again, headed south. It then started to rain so I raised the sails so as to catch the rainwater and was able to have a shower under the water running off the boom. I also did a load of washing and topped up the water tanks. It was the best tasting water I've every tasted, probably because it gets sucked up from the sea and dumped straight down again with no chance of being polluted by the smog you find on land. And the best thing about the downpour was that the Crap Merde dust and dirt got washed off Stingo's deck and sails. Soon after the rain had cleared, a huge school of dolphins frolicked under Stingo's bow for about half an hour. Then to top it all, there was a great sunset. Ah, happiness!
The doldrums were between three and five hundred miles wide and oscillated between 04°N and 08°N - a distance of two hundred and forty miles. As I drifted south, so did the doldrums making them even wider. That's probably why it took six days to get through them and I had motored a lot of the way. One of the tactics I employed was to head for the low pressure systems that are the beginnings of a hurricane in the hopes of finding a bit more wind. The tactic didn't work because I didn't encounter a breeze stronger than twelve knots until my eighteenth (and last) day at sea when I had thirty knots. That's probably the reason why I didn't exceed one hundred miles per day until my third last day at sea. My best twenty four hour run was one hundred and fifty three miles and that was on my last day. Very disappointing considering that on other legs, I'd achieve that distance regularly.
On a day that I was feeling particularly industrious, I made my first attempt at baking a loaf of bread. Yes, all the jokes about bricks and chipped teeth apply. Even after the second bakeathon, the jokes still applied. Whoever proclaimed that practice makes perfect, should have added "but practice still bakes imperfect".
Before I left Brighton, I stocked up with more Bully Beef than a reasonable person can be expected to eat in a lifetime (what on earth was I thinking?). At the time, what I hadn't considered was how to cook edible Bully Beef Surprise and after numerous concoctions being tossed overboard in the hopes that creatures lower down the food chain might enjoy it, I finally produced something that tasted vaguely like spaghetti bolognaise. I even had a second helping and was just contemplating a promotion too head chef at the Ritz, when the ratchet on my fishing rod screamed. I had hooked my first fish! It didn't put up a fight or even stimulate me with inspiration for a highly exaggerated Old Man and the Sea style fishing yarn. It was even the perfect size for the pan, but because I'd just eaten and had noticed another fish in Stingo's wake, I threw it back. Did you know that Dorado's go through life with a mate and despite what people say when you've just split up with a girlfriend; there are not plenty of fish in the sea?
During the crossing, I spent a lot of time reading. Prey, by Michael Crichton must rank high on the list of all-time-worst-ever-books. Never before have I read such boringly predictable utter rubbish. I've also read The Great Train Robbery by Crichton and it was an excellent read, which makes it difficult to believe he penned both books. One of the things that happens when a boat arrives in port is a book swap. Being such a proud sort and just so that I wouldn't leave people with the impression that I have poor taste in literature, I tossed Prey overboard. Good riddance. The best book I read and I will probably read it again is The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown. Despite being fiction, it was quite a thought provoker.
At 09° 40' N 025° 38' W, I went for a swim butt naked. At that position, Brazil was just over a thousand miles away to the south west and Africa just over five hundred miles to the north east and the closest land was three miles away. Three miles straight down. There was absolutely no wind at the time so I was able to swim a fair distance away from Stingo. The joke would have been on me if the slightest breeze had materialised, but it didn't. The water temperature was hot away from Stingo, but surprisingly refreshing in her shadow. I never realised that the sun had such an instantaneous effect on the water temperature or perhaps it was a case of feeling the heat of the sun and then the relief of being in Stingo's shadow. Whatever it was, it was a great swim and in hindsight, it was very irresponsible not having a piece of rope tethered between myself and Stingo.
One of the sail batten jammers broke and if I didn't climb the mast and remove the batten, I wouldn't have been able put a reef into the mainsail when the wind came up. So up the mast I went without a safety harness because, being single-handed, there was no one to tether it. I've been up the mast numerous times, but always in the tranquillity of a marina. This was the first time I've done it at sea and it's not a nice experience even in the gentle swell of that day. I don't have a firearm on board, but that day was the first time that I could justify having one; so I could have shot the batten to smithereens and solved the problem without climbing the mast. (For the technically minded, my battens slide in from the luff of the mainsail and the batten was protruding over a spreader, therefore, it prevented me from lowering the mainsail).
On legs longer than twenty fours hours, I never carry alcohol on board Stingo. There was one exception to this rule and that was for crossing the Equator. I had decided to take two beers with me; one for the actual crossing and one for celebrating afterwards. At 22:33 GMT on 19 September 2004, I cracked my first beer and it tasted flat and foul, so I tossed it overboard. The second one was just as bad so it went overboard too. I wonder if Davey Jones likes Spanish lager? It's traditional that the first time that you sail across the equator, the other crew members dress you up and pour gruel or some other horrible mix of fish guts and scales over you. I was going to keep things simple by pouring a little beer on my head. It didn't happen because I had thrown it overboard. So my first equator crossing was a bit of a letdown.
Vertigo: noun a sensation of dizziness, especially caused by heights. Well that's the Oxford dictionary's definition. It is also the disorientation that kills pilots within two minutes of entering cloud. Something to do with the inner ear and your sense of balance and the pilot not having an horizon as a point of reference, therefore he cannot see if he is in a left or right hand turn or if he is climbing or descending and he inevitably corrects the wrong way, then dies. If you want experience vertigo for yourself, without the death warrant, blindfold yourself and get someone to gently spin you on a swivel chair and then tell them which way you are spinning or if you are accelerating or decelerating. Odds are that within minutes, you will be completely wrong. For the first time on Stingo, I suffered from vertigo. It was on a pitch black moonless night and it was so dark that I couldn't see my hands in front of my face. And that is why the air was blue with expletives when I kept falling over, seemly without explanation.
Twenty eight days if you include the Canaries to Crap Merde leg or eighteen if you don't, single-handed, in the hurricane season and in a boat that the experts that have probably never ventured out of the Solent alleged was unsuitable for such a venture. That was my seventh Atlantic crossing. The first six were in the discomfort of economy class of a Boeing 747.
On the 4 October 2004, I will have been gone for a year. After an almost continuous summer and nearly five thousand miles later it's Olá Brazil. This country is good. The people are fun. They break out into a dance for no apparent reason and everyone seems to be naturally happy. Despite what Lonely Planet - South America on a shoestring says, I cannot believe there is a problem with pick pocketing or petty crime. I was sitting at a pavement café and couldn't believe that girls leave their handbags on the tables when they nip off to the loo. I just can't see that kind of lax attitude having a happy ending in London or any other part of the world for that matter. How unlikely is this? I was telling a girl that I had just met at the pavement café that I didn't know where to find a supermarket. She asked what I needed and offered to get it for me if I gave her the money upfront. I only had US Dollars on me so she offered to exchange them at a bank. I gave her US$30 and told her where Stingo was moored thinking I would never see her or my dinheiro again. Wrong. The next morning, there she was with a huge smile and a bag full of groceries and the correct change in local currency. Considering that she earns less than the equivalent of US$100 per month, a 30% bonus must have been tempting. In return, I offered her breakfast in bed but she didn't want breakfast and now I can't get rid of her. She wants to get married and have numerous children and live in a nice house and have a big dog and a swimming pool and...and... And when I ask her if a bloke that has never been married, that doesn't want children and is already forty five is likely to change his solitary ways, suddenly she can't understand English. And with so many nice girls that want to do my shopping for me, why buy the book when you can go to the library?
My first meal in Brazil was at what is known as a per kilo restaurant. You help yourself to a pile of vegetables and a ladle of mystery meat and then the waitress weighs your plate and charges you accordingly. Oh, it was nice to tuck into my first heap of fresh vegetables since leaving the Canaries two and a half months ago (Crap Merde is not known for it's fresh produce - in fact, I can't think what Crap Merde might be known for at all). Within hours, I was feeling great again and was back to my normal flatulent self. Wonderful!
Like any city in Brazil, Fortaleza has a problem with street-children. The difference is that in Fortaleza the authorities encourage them to perhaps shine shoes, sell trinkets or be performers of some description without being intrusive. If they don't comply, the Poder Judiciario (a separate police force that is attached to the courts) cart them away and that means no income for a few days. The PJ's are everywhere and their presence probably has a lot to do with the current lack of crime in the streets of Fortaleza. Wouldn't it be nice if this new scheme succeeded in the long term? The thing I find hard to understand about the powers of the PJ is that besides monitoring the activities of street-children, they also check the identity cards of the females patrons in a bars, but not the males. But then there are eight girls to one bloke in Fortaleza and perhaps I just didn't notice them checking the male patrons.
I haven't cottoned on as to whether there's soon to be a local or general election. Whichever it is, a campaign is just another excuse to party and it appears as if candidates are obliged too sponsor a live concert with free entry and subsidised booze. Who needs more of an excuse than that? Well I certainly don't and what's even more tantalizing is that there is nothing wrong with girls wearing a bikini to the concert and the skimpier the bikini, the more fashionable it is. There was one particular babe that ambled by... in fact it was more like a pair of Zeppelins in a dead heat. Thank goodness my reflective Oakley's can keep my retinas in check. It's just a pity they can't do anything about hiding the stupid grin on my chin.
You've just got to love this place, especially when you hear Brazilian credos like this: Happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory. And summing Brazil up in four words; don't bring your wife.
In the previous anecdotes, I named and shamed a Frenchman that disappeared without paying his debts. Thanks to all of you that sent him nasty emails. Jacques has sent an email apologising for his indiscretion and has sorted his debt out with me. Thank you Jacques. Your apology is accepted.
Until next time. Adiós amigos.
<hr width=100% size=1><font color=blue><A target="_blank" HREF=http://www.stingo.co.uk>http://www.stingo.co.uk</A> - now cruising nowhere near you</font color=blue>
