Magical cabin for sale.

I had a few minutes to kill while my iPhone was being repaired (don't ask), and instead of twiddling my Angry Birds thumbs I picked up the real estate brochure that was on the peeling walnut laminated table in the waiting area.

Apparently the northern California realtor representing this listed property doesn't understand that our economy isn't exactly robust.

Here's what the agent advertised:

• "Cute and funky old cabin" with "a certain magical feeling".
• Built in 1932, the cabin with its "redwood walls...feels like you are in the woods".
• Lot size: 8833 square feet. (That's a whopping 88 feet by 100 feet!)
• 2 bedroom, 2 bath.
• Fun to remodel or great lot for rebuilding." 
• "Priced very competitively".
• Offered at $1,499,000.

Let's see what $1.5 million will buy in:

Grand Haven, MI: Five, count them F-I-V-E, attractive homes close to Lake Michigan, the Grand River and Spring Lake. (Grand Haven houses.)

Charleston, SC: beautifully restored 19th century home in the historic district.  And since this home is listed at $1,000,000, you can use the $500,000 you saved to buy a really cute mountain cabin in Colorado. (Charleston house.)

Santa Fe, NM: If the desert is where you want to be, how about this fantastic southwest style home with its many vigas, chollas and sweeping views. (Santa Fe house.)

Anyone care to make an offer on that cute and funky old cabin?

Scottish roads and bridges.

Scotland is a beautiful country. It's rocky, lochy Highlands offer beautiful vistas and breathtaking glens; Edinburgh has its ancient castle and Royal Mile; and the islands have their own misty maritime allure.

And Scotland is full of Scottish people. They're the ones who thought it best not to waste money on roads wide enough for two cars to pass. Instead, they'd just put in the occasional "passing place".

These same Scots also decided to save on a bridge to Castle Stalker. Who needs a bridge when it's really easy to walk there at low tide.

I'm not sure what they're saving it all for. If it's for a rainy day, they'd be broke by now.

That said, when I'm an old, old lady, I will remember Scotland as one of my all-time favorite travel destinations.

Black Badger.

Coming round a bend on the Scottish coast we came across this sad sight, the result of a recent wicked storm. Having just toured Glencoe, this dialog came to mind:

"Uh, hello, Mr. Campbell, it's Duncan MacDonald here.

"Morning Duncan, how are you?"

"...well, Mr. Campbell. It seems we had a wee bit of wind here and that Black Badger of yours got a mind of it's own to go for a wee sail."

Well, I'm sure you did a fine job of taking care of her, just as always, right Dunc?"

"Well, Mr Campbell, I saw the weather coming in last night and thought I'd sleep aboard for safety's sake, but then I remembered the last time that a Campbell slept in a MacDonald bed, and that made me think it might not be a good thing for a MacDonald to sleep in a Campbell bed.

Good thing, too, Mr. MacDonald, or we'd have had another Glen Coe. I will tell you though that your Black Badger is now out of harms way, so to speak..."

The Terminal—stuck in Immigration.

Always travel with a photocopy.

After a great cruising season in Mexico, we put the boat to bed for the summer and caught a flight back to the States. Somewhere between seat 1B and immigration line 13 at LAX's Arrivals Hall I lost my passport and very nearly my mind.

Pulling my ransacked wheelie to the window, I told the agent what I'd done and asked him to please not send me to Guantanamo. The guy was good, he never even flinched. I produced a photocopy of my passport (never travel without copies tucked away in your bags) and was whisked off by another agent to Area Z. I wasn't sure what Area Z was, but it must have been the end of the line otherwise they would have called it Area J or B or T.

What I did know was that Area Z was something like Area 51—that other place for undocumented aliens. The people around me spoke Norwegian and Hindi and Chinese, not English; so there I sat, silently awaiting my fate.

While I cooled my jets, Alaska employees were searching the plane, shuttle bus and corridors on my behalf.

In less than an hour an Area Z agent handed back my photocopied document and welcomed me into the United States—I was free to go. If it turned up, my passport would be sent to the State Department where it would be destroyed, not mailed to me. It wouldn't be a problem except that I had an upcoming international flight and not enough time to get a replacement.

Right on cue, an Alaska employee approached, and holding up my passport, said, "This is your lucky day, Mrs. Fullagar".

I'd like to say this was my first encounter with aliens and U.S. Immigration, but...We just wanted to have lunch.

Paper nautilus.

A strong wind blew through much of the night. Normally I wouldn't care, but Mystic was at anchor for the final night of our six month cruise and I didn't want any trouble. Besides, it was Friday, the 13th.

Despite sleeping fitfully, I was wide awake before the sun poked over Baja's dusty hills. Pulling on yesterday's clothes, I jumped into the dinghy and in my haste to get to the beach I didn't even bother to pump up the tubes that had gone a little soft overnight. This was my last chance to do a little beach combing before we went into the marina in LaPaz and put Mystic to bed for the summer.

A quick survey of the beach turned up tracks in the sand along the high tide mark that despite the early hour showed someone had been there before me. First to arrive was a tejon, but not to worry, he was hunting for his breakfast, not shells. Tejons look like raccoons but have pointy snouts and long, cat-like tails. Cute, but vicious little creatures. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coati)

Not finding anything exciting (the tejon probably had the same luck), I picked up a few olive shells, nothing special, but at least they filled my pocket.

Working back towards the dinghy, my eyes continued to sweep the beach for one last, though unlikely, treasure. And there, partially buried in the sand, was a conchologist's prize--a paper nautilus! And I'm not even a conchologist, or at least I wasn't. The whoop that escaped as I bent to retrieve the delicate three-inch shell surprised even me. It was followed by a quick thank you to the very wind I'd been cursing just a few hours earlier.

The paper nautilus is actually an egg case created by an octopus and not a true shell at all. Because they are so fragile most are crushed by the sea long before they reach land. This Argonauta Nouryi was rare find indeed. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noury%27s_Argonaut)

I hope the tejon found what he was after before leaving the beach. I certainly did.

Blindfolded dinghy races.

Put two people in a dinghy, blindfold the driver and have the other person navigate. Trust. It's all about trust.

Today, Betsy of Mystic and Katie of Miss Teak entered the LoretoFest Dinghy Race. I was driving, Katie was navigating.

The rules were simple: cross the starting line, circle a boat in the distance (without hitting or damaging it), return to the start and retrieve a big Micky Mouse that's been tossed into the sea.

Easy? Not on your life.

Katie and I, the only all-girl entry, laughed and cheered the dinghies that went before us. Then suddenly it was our turn. Looking us in the eye, the rough, gray-haired race organizer said, "I'm counting on you two". Jeez, as if we didn't have enough pressure from the talented, speedy teams that had gone before us!

Easing toward the starting line, Katie positioned herself low in the bow as I pulled the blindfold over my eyes. I heard the starting gun, goosed the throttle and we were off. For the first forty-five seconds we were flying. Then I stopped trusting Katie's instructions. I heard her emphatic starboard, starboard, but instead let my own head and blind sense of direction take over, throwing us off course. 

I so wanted to pull off the blindfold and see where in the heck we were. All the while, Katie kept shouting directions and managed retrieved that life-jacketed Mickey Mouse. And as you might have guessed, we did not take home the trophy.

What a powerful lesson in trust. I just wish I could have seen it.

Surrounded by the Mexican navy.

We left Puerto Vallarta early this morning for an overnight passage to Mazatlan. We always want our passages to be uneventful but we don't always get our way.

Midday surprise

Stealth mode

This afternoon a Mexican navy vessel came racing at us then swiftly veered off, but not before I snapped a quick photo. Strange, but this is Mexico. At dinner we commented on a boat that had been shadowing us for several hours, but no biggie, it's usually just some other cruising boat traveling about the same speed at Mystic.

Later, alone on night watch I dimmed the lights and was enjoying an amazing full moon (the brightest in twenty years) when my moon suddenly morphed into a five million candlepower spotlight. I quickly eased back on the throttle—our signal that the off-watch person was needed topsides—which brought David running. We tried to identify the boat that was nearly on top of us: drug runners, navy, fisherman wanting a beer, we had no idea.

I repeatedly hailed the menacing boat and got the same response: a spotlight in my eyes from 50 feet away. I asked their intentions, same response. Fed up, David got out our spotlight and shined it back at them:  it was the Mexican navy, again. That finally got them talking.  After a few Spanglish questions about us and our boat they announced they were launching their rubber boat and would be boarding us for a "routine inspection" in ten minutes. Routine? At night? We waited as Mystic wallowed 25 miles offshore. David and I have a rubber boat too, and it takes us about three minutes to hoist it off the boat deck and pop it into the water.

It took the navy an hour-and-a-half to launch their rubber boat and send six men over to us. More specifically, it took the Mexican navy an hour-and-a-half to call in the three big boats that now were circling us.

Once on board the seamen took off their shoes but kept their guns. One guy asked the questions, another cradled a big radio that continuously transmitted everything we said, and a third just stood there, Uzi in hand, pointed downward, thankfully.

It was soon clear to them that we were just cruisers on an overnight passage and the conversation shifted to the beautiful sights in Mazatlan, the Mexico of years past, even tacos al pastor.

I followed the boss down below as he made his "routine inspection", and there, out of earshot of that transmitting radio he told me why the navy had surrounded Mystic. They'd had a tip that a boat similar to ours was transiting the area with a shipment of bad stuff that they hoped to intercept. He acknowledged that the navy had been shadowing us, apologized for the inconvenience and advised that they were keeping the waters safe for everyone.

As I write this I can see the lights of the Mexican navy in the distance, one boat to port, another to starboard. And I'm kind of glad they're there.

(This was Mystic's second boarding in six weeks, the previous one really was routine.)

Gasoline, Mexican style.

David and I are still enjoying Mexico and as we travel from anchorage to anchorage we always manage to sample a little bit of the local color.

Today it was a girls trip (plus Ted, one of the husbands) to the Careyes Resort for lunch.

The guys ferried us ashore in Chamela where we strolled down a beautiful sandy beach and up to the main road where one of the women thought we might be able to catch a taxi for the 25 minute ride to Careyes. Not. We're in Chamela, not San Francisco. I suggest that perhaps we can find a guy with a pickup truck to squire us but my idea is poorly received. Eventually I find a young woman whose brother, Luis, is willing to drive us in his van.

Luis quotes a price of about $20 round trip for all of five so we climb aboard and are off. I'm sitting in the front seat chatting away with Luis about the latest iPhone exploit and sharing our thoughts on what the next iPad is going to look like (who would have thought that our driver was actually a full time geek who was just kind enough to give us a ride!) when he suddenly pulls off the narrow road onto the dusty shoulder.

The local gas station.

Luis explains that if we are going to make it to Careyes -- and back -- he needs to buy some gas. The gas station turns out to be a shack with an assortment of jerry jugs, a few bottles of engine oil and a huge pin-up calendar of the hot babe of the year.

 Luis places his order with the gas station attendant who brings out a couple of well used jerry jugs and a length of hose. The man hoists the jug onto his shoulder, puts one end of the hose in the jug and the other in his mouth and in no time at all gravity has done its job.

Human gas pump.

We all pile back into the van and continue on to Careyes and a delightful lunch.

When it's time to go back, Luis is ready and waiting for us. We retrace our steps, climb back into our dinghies and zip back to our boats. I'm feeling a bit richer for my interesting ride with Luis.

Luis and the girls (minus Ted)

(David and I are resting up this evening in preparation for a midnight departure north. Mystic will be traveling in the company of several other boats, all of us hoping the weather window is big enough for us to get around Cabo Corrientes and into Puerto Vallarta before the next big blow.)

Boarded by the Mexican navy.

We arrived in Tenecatita, one of our all-time favorite Mexican anchorages, and within ten minutes of putting the hook down the Mexican navy came aboard Mystic. They didn't announce themselves nor did they ask permission to board. They just brought their launch alongside and stepped aboard.

Three well-armed men stood on our swim platform and were about to enter the boat when I stopped them and (in my best Spanish) said they were welcome to come into the boat but they needed to take off their black-soled shoes first. They looked at me like I was crazy (and so did David) but I stood my ground and after a moment of "What the ...?" two of the Uzi-wielding soldiers took off their shoes and came inside.

While their companion waited outside the other two asked us two pages of questions in Spanish. Did I mention that David and I barely speak Spanish? We offered them lemonade and chips with guacamole but they kindly declined saying they'd already had lunch on their big gray mother ship. The guys in the salon were polite and friendly and the third guy stood on the aft deck looking totally left out.


Having satisfactorily answered their many questions one of the guys pulled out a small camera and took photos of our passports, our radios and all the electronics in our navigation console. As they prepared to leave I said they couldn't go until we had a photo together. David looked at me again like I was crazy but picked up a camera and took a shot of me with two of the Mexican Navy's finest.

After a few more pleasantries the two guys put their heavy black shoes back on, climbed back into their launch and shot off back to their mother ship.

Mind you, this experience was far more pleasant than any experience we have had with our U.S. Homeland Security. See: We just wanted to have lunch.

Salt on a bird's tail.

Magnificent Frigatebird.

When my sister and I were little my mother used to tell us to go catch a bird. She said that if we approached a bird very slowly and quietly we could put a little salt on its tail and would be able to catch it. Armed with salt shakers my sister and I spent ages sneaking around the yard chasing down robins and chickadees that would quickly flit away. What my mother really wanted, and got, was a some peace and quiet without kids underfoot.

Isabela fishcamp.

We recently visited Isla Isabela, a small, rocky island off the coast of Mexico that would have my mother running wild with a salt shaker. Isabela is host to an unbelievable concentration of seemingly tame birds. Other than a small fish camp and a tumble-down research station with a few birdwatching grad students, the island is undeveloped and predator-free.

Brown-footed Booby

The birds, brown- and blue-footed Boobys and Magnificent Frigatebirds, rule this roost.The boobys have got the ground covered and the frigates control the shrubs and low trees. Not to be outdone, large numbers of iguanas warm themselves each day before disappearing into rocky nooks and crannies when the sun goes down.

They might be yellow but these
are actually "Green Iguanas".

What makes this place so fascinating is just how approachable the birds and iquanas are. It's easy to get within a few feet without scaring them off. I'd happily salt and catch a booby in memory of my mother but I don't think the bird would appreciate it.

Booby mother and chick.

Looking for a hot chick!

Following an elaborate courtship dance the boobys build a rough nest on the ground. After laying two eggs (the second is insurance should the first one not survive), the booby stays put for nearly a year to raise its young as well as protect the chick from an opportunistic frigatebird out for an easy meal.

Like the boobys, the frigates have an unusual mating ritual. The males have what looks like a red turkey wattle under their beaks that they inflate to attract a female. Once properly courted the frigatebird builds its twiggy nest in low trees and shrubs
and never leaves it unguarded for fear of losing its nest material to other frigatebirds. Walking around the shrubbery I was surprised to find the ground littered with eggs that awkward would-be parents bumped from their nests. Given the number of birds on the island I don't think the occasional lost egg will put the frigatebirds on the endangered species list any time soon.

Isla Isabela is an amazing place and well worth the small detour we made to get there. If you ever want a little kid-free time send your child into the garden with a salt shaker. If you want them to bring home a bird, take a trip to Isla Isabela.

Night watch.

We do our best to avoid night watch. Sometimes we have crew on board to maximize our sleeping hours, but having crew changes our boat mode. This time it's just the two of us running down the coast of Mexico's Baja peninsula, so we've been making day hops from anchorage to anchorage when possible. But now we can't avoid the big "N" any longer.

This morning we poked around a dusty little town collecting a few provisions to tide us over for the next several days until we reach Cabo. We stowed the dinghy on the boat deck, raised anchor and were underway before noon. The next time our anchor touches bottom will be in Magdelena Bay with its rich marine life and perhaps a chance to trade some Goodwill hoodies for lobster with the local fishermen. But first we have to run 26 hours to get there.

By mid-afternoon David is sick. He never gets sick, but he is violently ill. And it isn't seasickness. Must have been the food in Turtle Bay. At one point I find him bent over the bed in our cabin. He's trying to come up to stand his watch but is too sick to even make it up the stairs let alone keep an eye on the boat , so I tuck him in and go back to the pilot house.

It's a lonely feeling being fifty miles offshore, out of sight of land, watching the moon rise as the sun goes down and hoping David will feel better soon.

Before the sun is gone I turn on the running lights so other boats, if there are any, can see us. In the pilothouse, I dim the displays on the navigation equipment and switch on the red console lights to save my night vision.

The hours wear on and occasionally a big wave catches the boat swinging us from side to side before the stabilizers have a chance to do their job, Mystic's long-familiar creaks tell me she is groaning back at the sea. The autopilot grinds as it works to correct our course and once or twice its siren-like wail gives me a start. By the time I jump up to have a look the alarm has stopped and we're back on course. Sometimes we get a "slippery" wave and each time I hope David is asleep and doesn't feel it.

I haven't heard a peep from him in a couple of hours and am hopeful that the drugs he took are working. Just to be sure I go down to check. The night lights are on and I can tell he's asleep. Finally, some rest for him.

I'm feeling peckish, but it's not much fun dining alone so I start the generator and pop a bag of popcorn instead. A glass of wine would be nice, but not with popcorn, so I skip it.

Running in daylight is so different from nighttime passages. During the day I am futzing around the boat doing a little cleaning and chasing down dust bunnies that magically appear in all the regular places. I keep up with my iPad Scrabble. And now that the water is warmer, I put out two fishing rods, one with a cedar plug, the other with a Mexican feather lure. So far the fishing has been terrible. I've managed to catch a bird, yes a bird, and one Bonito, a so-so edible fish that made a mess of the back deck.

Traveling at night is another story. I glance at the radar every few minutes to see if there are any boats in our path, but there aren't. Most boats don't travel at night. I also keep an eye on the various gauges; oops, I suddenly realize the generator is still running after making popcorn and jump up to turn it off. Then I wonder if we have enough fuel in our day tanks to get us through the night. If I open the engine room door to check it's sure to wake David up. Hmmm.

Looking out the pilothouse windows the moon lights up the sea as it rushes by. If only it would rush by faster so we could be anchored in Mag Bay and David would feel better.

David suddenly appears and offers to stand his watch. But he's still sick. Back to bed with him.

It's only 10:30 but I've been in the pilothouse since noon and am starting to feel drowsy. Maybe another game of iPad Scrabble will get me going again.

Traveling on a boat at night is like flying a plane at night but with a heck of a lot more room for error. Everything is done by instruments and you have to trust them because it's just plain dark outside.

The sea has quieted a little and the boat motion is gentler now. As the night wears on it might settle some more.

The various boats noises have become part of my night watch rhythm and the slightest change is cause for attention. Fortunately, Mystic has carried us a long way with little trouble and she'll make it through this night without a problem. And so will I.

At 2:00 a.m. David manages to drag himself into the pilothouse. He doesn't look great but says he feeling better. Probably a white lie, but I'm ready to go below for a little rest. Thank you, David. I hope you feel better soon.

Mexico bound.

We've been planning to take the boat from Canada to Mexico for most of this last year. After a short summer in Canadian waters, Mystic left the beautiful Pacific Northwest, ran down the coast, and settled a short while in San Diego. After some final preparations and some serious provisioning -- half of Trader Joe's and a lot of Costo, we cast off our lines and crossed the border to Manana Land.

Other than a few lumps on our first day out, the seas have been kind to us. Our first anchorages were a bit rolly but Mystic took them well and kept us comfortable -- as well she should since she weighs 100,000 pounds.

The sea has changed from the cold steely gray of the pacific northwest to a friendly deep blue, and the sun that we see every day looks like a million diamonds bouncing off the sea. We're seeing lots of dolphins -- they love ride our bow wave, sometimes staying with us for 30 minutes or more. There's something about dolphins that makes them seem like big kids out for fun. We also had a run on whales one day as several of them blew and flipped their tails and fins. Trivia: the Gray whale makes a 12,000 mile round trip from the arctic to its calving grounds in Mexico, one of the longest known migrations.

We anchored Mystic at Isla Benitos one afternoon and couldn't believe how many elephant seals littered the beach -- it is calving and mating season. There were a few fights going on between males who were after mating rights, fights that sometimes end in death for the weaker male, or at the very least, a bloody snout. The seals around Benitos are incredibly curious especially compared to their Pacific Northwest relatives. Fifteen or 20 of these guys will come racing toward the dinghy and bob around close by for a bit, then suddenly, they'll race back to the rocks before starting their little adventure again. These small seals tend to stay away from the beaches where their ungainly cousins have hauled themselves out.

We're starting to meet other sailors who are also seeking warmer waters, they're coming mostly from California, Washington and British Columbia, though we did meet one couple that came in from Australia via Japan. Also, one very young couple bought a boat in San Francisco in July, quit their jobs in September and jumped off in October. They're final destination is a nice one: the Caribbean.

Eager to turn the corner at Cabo...nice beaches, warm water, colorful fish. Soon. Very soon.

Broken shopping trolleys.

I love deserts and in a few weeks will be heading to the Gobi in Mongolia. In preparation, my online searches have produced a number of good first-hand reports of other people's Mongolian adventures.

In particular, one woman, traveling solo, had joined up with a couple of strangers and hired a guide to show them some of the country. After traveling several hours along tracks masquerading as roads, they stopped to go horseback riding. When I read her account I had tears of laughter running down my cheeks:

"...I was ready for a horse with a bit of Va Va Voom. What I actually got was a broken, shopping trolley type of horse. I´d point it in the direction that I wanted it to go, give it a little encouragement to go forward and wait. It´d take a few steps forward and then slowly drift off to the right as if it had a broken wheel, before coming to a halt. It was a bit of a pain to keep pulling to the left and saying Choooo, but at least I got there. MaiKhoi´s (the American) and Anne´s (Danish) horse both refused to go at all, and if they did it was in the wrong direction. I took advantage of these times to bond with my horse. I´d find a nice bit of green grass and then let it eat while the guide would head back to rescue the other two..." (posted by Irax at Travelpod.com)

I'll remember to thoroughly check out my horses and camels before leaving the ger.

Back to basics.

This image about sums up my recent experience in Zimbabwe.


It's the first grade class at Gwanda's Ward 22 Primary School. The school is in the middle of nowhere, fourteen kilometers from the nearest town. That said, there are squatter huts on the land adjacent to the school that were built by women who were so determined to have their kids educated that they moved from even more rural locations to this tumble-down school in the middle of nowhere.

Understaffed and with no resources but chalk and blackboards, the teachers at this school, who earn $100 a month, are educating kids, and believe it or not, they are learning. First graders are learning simple addition and seventh graders are studying geometry.

My hat goes off and my heart goes out to the parents and teachers who are succeeding when everything around them is failing.

Speedos -- oh no!

I stepped into a German hotel elevator with two 30-something American guys who had just arrived in Frankfurt on business. One said he was going to hit the hotel gym and the other planned to swim laps in the pool. The gym guy jokingly asked the pool guy if he was going to swim American style or wear a Speedo. Even though both men were quite fit I just couldn't hold my tongue, and I turned to the would-be swimmer, and with a smile, I said, "No Speedos".

Moments later the elevator stopped and the door opened to reveal a woman wrapped in a white bathrobe. Beside her stood a man with a small Speedo peeking out from under his large beer belly.

I quickly glanced toward the two fitness guys and we all burst out laughing! Luckily for me, we'd stopped at my floor so I was able to make a speedy exit.

Moral of story: boys over the age of five shouldn't wear Speedos.

No photos. (They would have been censored anyway.)

Americans in Africa.

In African Shoes currently has three volunteers working in Boxahuku, South Africa. I was able to spend a few days with them before turning them loose on the village. What a joy and a relief to see how quickly they settled in, made friends and got down to work. Taking volunteers to Africa has it's own challenges and the volunteers need to adapt from moment they arrive. There are tribal customs to learn, no flushing toilets, dodgy Internet access, and power cuts to deal with to name just a few. Martin, Samantha and Sameer have been amazing. In addition to changing lives in the village, they are changing their own lives. Keep up the good work guys!

Darwin's near Darwin.

We were having dinner at a Japanese restaurant the other night. A thirty-something couple with a young child had finished their sushi and were preparing to leave. While papa was paying the bill and mama was paying attention to her pocketbook, their little boy, perhaps three years old, made for the door. We watched as he toddled on the sidewalk, wondering how long it would be before one of the parents went running after him.

His little legs were closing in on the busy street so David jumped up to intervene; he also told the boy's mother where her child was headed.

Mama yelled out the door, "Darwin! Come back here!"

Were it not for David, young Darwin could have taken himself out of the gene pool that night.

Obviously, the boy's parent's hadn't heard of the Darwin Awards (www.darwinawards.com) when they named their adventuresome little boy.

The People's Desire.

I traveled half way around the world to experience Burma first hand and came across this sign in Mandalay that demonstrates the brilliance of the 25 General Stooges who run the place.

They work overtime to dictate what the people desire. Unfortunately, speaking your true desire (democracy) in Burma may cause you to disappear in the middle of the night.

Lobster in Phuket.

While chartering a sailboat in Phuket, I fished a little bit using a rapella at the end of a handline that I tied to one of the boat's stanchions. Since I wanted to catch the fish, not drown it, I rigged a "bobber" on deck by wrapping a bit of line on another stanchion and clipping it off with a clothes pin. That way when a fish hit the rapella the tension would pop the clothes pin and alert us.

For two days I rigged and rerigged my fishing line and clothes pin without success. Then on the third day I had a hit. And the darn thing took the bait while I was below decks so I never even got to see my "bobber" snap free. Hauling the line in hand-over-hand took a while and I even questioned whether there was even a fish on the line or just some stray bit of ocean stuff. Eventually, the "ocean stuff" came close enough for us to see that we had a barracuda - long, skinny, big teeth...

Shortly after landing the fish a local fisherman in his long-tail boat came alongside and offered to sell us some of his day's catch. His wife smiled as she held up some squid. No thanks. Needle fish? No thanks. Baby shrimp. Nope. Big prawns? Hmmm. Lobster? Let's talk.

I climbed aboard the grubbiest, smelliest boatI've ever been on to pick out some big juicy prawns and plunk them into a bucket that the leathery man's wife was holding. Then I turned to the fisherman and asked for that lobster he'd offered and added it to the bucket. Then the negotiation began.

He held up three fingers and slowly counted out loud: one-two-three. Three hundred baht (about $9.50). No thanks. We went back and forth and finally I climbed back aboard our boat, picked up that sorry barracuda and offered him my fish and 100 baht ($3.00) for the bucket of lobster and prawns.

Deal.

$18,382.

That was the amount of the bill we received from Los Gatos' Good Samaritan Hospital the other day. $18,382.

Two (well, technically three) rabies injections, one bitchy nurse, one nice nurse, and 3.5 hours = $18,382. Go figure.

David checked out what it would cost in the U.K. to keep me from foaming at the mouth and the price is nine pounds, about $15 U.S.

And some of you are questioning the need for health care reform? How would you feel if you got a bill for $18,382?

"Excuse me mum..."

When I'm in Africa I get a little weary of being singled out by beggars. They are usually men in their twenties or thirties who think I'll feel sorry for them and give them money. Sometimes, when in a shopping area I am approached by men who tell me they have no money and ask me to give them a few rand. I either ignore the beggar or just flatly decline and turned away. These people probably have about the same amount of money as everyone else, they just think they might find a sympathetic white woman to enrich them.

Alweet and I were in the ShopRite in Malamulele the other day and as we exited I handed over my receipt to the guard at the door and opened my shopping bag so he could verify that I was not a shoplifter. I wished him a good afternoon and had gone just a few steps when a stranger asked me for money. I told him no and said to go away. That was the first time Alweet had actually seen the begging happen. In the car driving back to Mabiligwe I told him that the next time someone begged I was going to deal with it differently.

Fast forward slightly, Alweet and I are in the Saselamani ShopRite this time and as I'm cooling myself off in front of the wilting lettuce in the refrigerator section a short-ish, little bit unkempt man approaches me. He takes his hat off and literally "hat in hand" tells me he doesn't have any money and would I be so kind as to give a few rand. I narrow my eyes and as why he's asking me for money. When he doesn't answer, I ask why he doesn't ask the guy standing near the racks of bread for money. The man says, "That guy doesn't have any money". "Oh, okay", so I take him by the arm to a different man and ask that man if he will give the beggar some money; and of course, he won't. So, still holding the guy's sleeve, I lead him to a woman who looks to be in her mid-thirties who is eyeing a tube of baloney. In South Africa they call it Paloney; either way, it's a disgusting bright pink lump of reconstituted meat. "Excuse me, mum", I say, "this man needs money. Will you please give him some?" She looks at me like I'm a crazy woman so I repeat the question. She looks back and forth between me and the man, who by now is really starting to wonder what is going to happen, and with a small smile she shakes her head and says no. I thank her and turn back to the beggar, who by now is convinced that I'm a crazy woman and rues his decision to approach me. "So, there you have it! Nobody, black or white, is going to give you any money. Now what are you going to do?" As the guy turns toward the door, another man, who has observed the entire exchange laughs and says, "You have bad luck today, brother!" Meanwhile, Alweet was so busy choosing a tea kettle (they only sell one kind) that he missed the whole funny event, darn it!

Rabies.

I was bitten in the thigh by a nasty dog on my last trip to Africa. Normally, the dog would be checked for rabies and that would determine the course of action for the person who'd been attacked. But I was in Africa and things work differently there. I cleaned up my own wound and a couple of days later when I was at the medical clinic on an errand, I asked the nurse about my bite. She insisted on beginning the rabies series but I politely declined saying I was heading home in a couple of days and would deal with it there.

David had made arrangements for me to receive the first shot in the rabies series as soon as I got home. So, my plane lands and and he whisks me off, first to my doctor for a written rabies prescription, then to Good Samaritan hospital for the rabies and immune globulin injections. I hadn't yet begun foaming at the mouth and was happy to be treated in the US where we have competent medical staff.

At 4:20 p.m. I check in at Good Sam's triage office. They asked me a load of questions, put an ID band on my wrist and passed me off to a nurse who put me in cubicle #24, just outside the nurse's station.

At 4:30 a doctor came in, asked all the pertinent questions and said the shots were on their way from the pharmacy. I'm impressed because I'm going to be poked by a couple of needles and out of there in no time.

At 5:30 we hear the medical staff discussing rabies. One of them said that in Africa the rabies shots they use on people are the same ones they use on animals, and how could they be so backwards and incompetent, and so on.

At 6:00 p.m. we hear the medical staff discussing my dosage, trying to figure out just how much to give me.

At 6:15 p.m. the medical staff is still struggling with the dose so I get up from my skinny little bed, pull the hospital gown closed behind me, open the curtain to my cubicle, and say, "Excuse me, but you're making me a little bit nervous with all these questions about how much to give me." A cute little nurse dressed all in pink whips around and snaps, "If you weren't so close to the station you wouldn't have even heard this conversation!" (Not the point.) I suggest they call the doctor and she says they don't have his number. I tell her I do and give her the number.

At 6:35 p.m. The doctor comes into the ER, takes two seconds to tell the nurse what the dose is, comes in to chat with me about Africa, and leaves.

At 7:00 p.m. another nurse (a nice one this time) comes into my cube, takes 20 minutes to enter the vacine data into a computer.

At 7:20 p.m. I get the rabies shot, then the nice nurse injects the immune globulin smack in the middle of the wound, she also stabs my arm. Ouch! Ouch! and Ouch again!

At 7:21 p.m. I fall asleep. (I'd only been awake for 49 hours at that point.)

At 7:40 p.m. the nurse wakes me up, and showing no sign of reaction I am released to go home.

My total time at the US emergency room was 3 1/2 hours.

Rewind four days: At the clinic in Africa the nurse took one look at my dog bite, went into another room, came out with the rabies shot and was ready to stick me with it. At the clinic in Africa a competent nurse would have had me out of there in five minutes flat.

Go figure.

David's German car, part 3.

So, David's nice German car overheated and went into the garage for a $1300 thermostat. But as car repairs go,$1300 became $1600. Annoying, but what could he do.

When the garage called to say his car was ready to be picked up, I dropped David off and headed home. Within 30 minutes, he called to say his car had overheated, again. And he called Ed's towing, again.

Fast forward one week. David still has the rental car provided by the garage and is heading to BestBuy to get some speakers for our IAS effort in Africa. His rental car suddenly breaks down -- in the middle of traffic in front of Santa Row. I rush to his rescue and we wait in my warm Lexus until Ed, from Ed's towing shows up for the third time. "Don't I know you..."

Don't hold your breath -- you will probably expire before David's $1600 thermostat is sorted out!

David's German car, part 2.

The garage called to say that David's German car was ready to be picked up so I dropped him off in Palo Alto and headed home. Oops.

Within 20 minutes he called to say his repaired car had broken down before he even reached the highway! He also said that I could go on home because the garage was providing a rental car.

Who knows when this nice German car will be out of the repair garage and back in the Fullagar garage.

German cars.

You'd think David would have had his fill of German cars by now.

Some years ago he had a Mercedes that would have been a nice car had the engine not blown up one dark, rainy night on a blind curve on Highway 17. When he called the Mercedes emergency road service for towing he spoke with a woman in New Jersey who said she'd send someone right away. He didn't have to wait for a tow truck to arrive from New Jersey, but it was still a very long wait.

Then David bought a 740 BMW, and one freezing night the door handle came off in his hand when he tried to open it. Fine German engineering. Because the car was nearly 2000 miles out of warranty that new door handle cost $900. And a year later when a tail light burned out the repair estimate was over $10,000 because the electrical wiring had melted. Rather than sell the car and risk some serious liability, David traded it in on a new Lexus for me -- Merry Christmas, Betsy!

Will he never learn? Yesterday, David called and asked me to pick him up at a garage in Palo Alto. Turns out, his fancy Audi overheated and needed a new thermostat. Not a big deal since the part only cost $20. But believe it or not, the labor charge is over $1300 because half the car needs to be dismantled to get at the thermostat!

Maybe next time my husband will buy a reliable Japanese car. Then again, by the time he gets around to a new car the Chinese will probably dominate the market!

Domestic difficulties.

Lately, I've noticed lately that the dishes have been coming out of the dishwasher looking as though they'd had nothing more than a quick rinse. I even complained to David that the new Electrasol dishwasher tablets were worthless and wished Costco still sold the Cascade brand.

Then, when emptying the dishwasher yesterday I noticed a cache of Electrasol "pills" in the bottom of the dishwasher -- each one of them still wrapped in plastic. Huh?

Then that I remembered that my brilliant husband came out of Cambridge with a degree in physics, not chemistry, and he was putting the tablets in the dishwasher without first removing the Polyethylene wrapper.

To be entirely honest, I put the Electrasol tablets in the Cascade container because the Cascade tub was better designed... but I didn't tell David I'd made the switch.

No doubt my wonderful husband will try to post a rebuttal.

Class 7B.

I stopped by the primary school next to our African learning center and was stunned to see that many of the classes had students but not teachers. Without thinking I walked into one and was able to quiet the kids enough to ask where their teacher was. "Absent", they said.

Since I'm neither teacher nor parent I should have high-tailed it out of there, but just couldn't. "What are you supposed to be studying right now?", I ask. No response. I repeat the question. Again no response. I slap my hand down on one boy's desk and ask again, only this time I'm loud and in his face. The class goes instantly quiet. "Life science.", he whispers. I snatch up another boy's notebook and see notes about the circulatory system.

Back in front of the class I ask what red blood cells do, what arteries do, and so on. I really should have been asking myself what I was doing in front of a class of 12-15 year old seventh graders!

The kids regurgitate a few answers but are totally lost, so I, the non-teacher, try to give life to the lesson. Will white blood cells save you from HIV/AIDS? What would happen if the red blood cells hit a road block. With each of the questions I draw my hand across my throat and make a croaking sound. They start to pay attention and they start to talk.

When the bell rang signaling the end of the school day, the learners started to jump up and I gently closed the door. They sat back down and I gave them the talk about what they could do with their lives if they truly wanted to succeed. I told them that I came into their class and yelled at them because I cared about them and that I would be back. Then I opened the door. Nobody moved. I told them that class was over and they could leave. Still nobody moved. At that point my eyes started to well up. One of the boys came over and put his arms around me. Quietly they came, one by one, some hugging me, some taking my hand. About half the class left. The others stood around talking until I left.

There is hope for these kids. They just need a teacher who cares. It's not me, I'm not even a teacher. Somewhere in this frustrating, wonderful place there are teachers who care enough to make a difference. If only they were in Class 7B.

Do you have any rum on board?

Here we are back on Mystic in the Pacific Northwest. We arrive in Roche Harbor, Washington, to clear back into the U.S. from Canada. The sun is shining and there are lots of people on lots of boats enjoying the Independence Day weekend.

For some reason I am always the one goes to the customs office to clear Mystic in. David stays on board, I suppose he's the smart one. I walk in with our passports and vessel documentation in hand and take a seat to wait my turn. The man ahead of me hands over his Canadian passports and starts answering the questions posed to him by Officer Jim who keys the responses into his computer. It's going along just fine until the agent asks him if he has any alcohol on board. "Yes, we have alcohol.", the man answers. "Do you have any rum on board", questions Officer Jim. Then me, being who I am, pipes up, "What's so special about rum?" The female agent at the next computer lifts her head and gives me a sharp look. I don't know what she hopes to achieve by that -- it certainly isn't going to silence me. But before I have a chance to bother her further, Officer Jim saves me with, "It could be Cuban rum."

"Oh.", I mumble. Now I understand. This guy on his tiny sailboat might be a rum runner. Who knows? He might be carrying a liter of illegal rum. And of course he would call in at Roche Harbor to announce himself .

I like Officer Jim. We have a history together. (See "We just wanted to have lunch", 9-7-07, post.) But sometimes I think parts of his job are just plain dumb. And I think there are far better ways of spending taxpayer money than chasing down the odd bottle of Cuban rum.

Care for a cigar?

Safer to be Greek?

We're wandering around Rome at the moment. In addition to being awed by massive numbers of fantastic monuments I'm struck by the number of bit and pieces of statues floating around. I don't know what Venus de Milo had to complain about. That Greek girl just lost an arm and a half! Every one of these Italian guys lost their heads, and a whole lot more!

Self portrait.

I was looking for a certain photo today and came across this self-portrait from April 2008. Just had to post it. That's David on the camel in front of me.

I can't remember what I was originally looking for. Must be that juvenile Alzheimers setting in, darn it!

Which old bag made it home first?

If you made a wager with yourself about which old bag would get home first, I hope you were betting on me because Air France managed to lose my bag -- again!

They also left four busloads of passengers on the tarmac in Paris for an hour and a half -- there we all stood packed in like sardines while they cleaned the plane.  The resulting delay caused me to miss yet another connection. In the end, I missed three flights.

Thank you Air France.

Air France and a couple of old bags.

I arrived at the Air France counter in Johannesburg only to be told that check-in for my flight was closed. When I pointed out that it was too early to close the flight, a supervisor came out and led me to customer care. She said the flight was definitely closed and suggested I get a supervisor. But I'd already seen a supervisor, so the supervisor said she would get her supervisor. Meanwhile, some other passengers in the same situation got unruly and loud, and eventually violent. (Note to self: never get unruly, loud, or violent at the Jo'burg airport because they confiscate passports, call the police and haul you off to jail.)

The supervisor's supervisor finally arrived and explained they had overbooked business class by five seats hence my denied boarding. She said I'd be rebooked on the o'dark:30 flight to Paris. Not a problem except that I would miss my connection to SFO. Okay, so Paris isn't the worst place to have to overnight, especially since Air France would be paying for one of those incredibly small rooms that Paris is so famous for. 


Just as I'm thinking I'd soon be visiting the Louvre, the agent advised me that Air France doesn't fly to San Francisco on Tuesdays and would I care to spend two nights in Paris. "No. Can I fly home from Paris through LA or Seattle?"  "Oh, yes. Certainly." After more shuttling back and forth I finally stood before the man who would issue my boarding passes.

And that's when an Air France employee pulled the rug out from under me--literally. He took it two counters over and replaced my red carpet with a blue one. It really didn't matter much since I hadn't had the red carpet treatment anyway.

Then, when the agent tagged my bag for LAX I asked if he would please turn the conveyor belt on so I could see it go. (I'd been in S. Africa for two weeks, but my bag had only been here for one and it had been destroyed en route.) When the agent hit the button to send my bag on its way nothing happened. At this point we all burst out laughing for the umpteenth time. After several attempts the guy just picked up my bag and hand-carried it to the main conveyer belt.

So, here I am heading home with a wallet full of "We're so sorry" vouchers, a wooden fish, and low expectations for the timely arrival of my bag.

Care to place a wager on which old bag gets home first?

The hyenas ate our drums.

Bringing four volunteers to Africa makes me see just how much of the country I take for granted. WIth Elizabeth, Joan, Melissa and Sally I am seeing see this place with new eyes and new ears. Yesterday at lunch we commented on some of the things we've heard.

Here are just a few of the words along the way:

"My smile has expired." (Take the darn photo)

"I'm here to do everything for you", said Margaret, the cook, as she reclined on the bed outside the kitchen. (We had just finished preparing our own lunch.)

"Dessert is coming just now", said the waitress with a smile. We asked if we could first have the main course that we'd been waiting an hour for.

"Get Inside", barked a friendly villager as she invited us into her home.

"Here is a bucket for urine." (It saved some volunteers from hiking to the outhouse in the middle of the night.)

"We take care of the whole bang-shoe", volunteered the lodge receptionist. 

 "The entertainment has been cancelled because the hyenas ate our drums." (Apparently the drums were left outside one night at a safari lodge)

I can only imagine how our African friends chuckle at our attempts at their language.

A country girl goes to New York.

My husband is an accomplished sailor who was invited to join the Cruising Club of America (CCA) a few years ago. The organization is made up of bluewater sailors who have nosed their boats into places many people will never hear of. By the very nature of their kind of sailing these adventurers sometimes find themselves in pickles that would be the undoing of most people. Some have survived hurricanes, sinking boats, burning boats, even pirate attacks, yet they usually manage to sail themselves out of these situations. Their boats are sometimes big impressive yachts, but most are modest little boats, just the right size for a competent sailor to handle. Sometimes they sail alone, usually they sail with their spouse or a couple of friends. Most of these sailors are modest men but when you put them together in one room their collective stories, mostly true, will make you want to give them awards for courage, perseverence, and at times a little stupidity.

David and I are in New York this week for the awards dinner of the CCA. Since the club has no clubhouse of its own (I guess they assume the membership is usually out sailing) the dinner was held at the New York Yacht Club.

We had a very nice lunch at the NYYC where "blue jeans are never considered tasteful attire" followed by a tour of the building. We visited the spot where the America's Cup trophy used to reside. (At the moment a neutral little land-locked nation has bragging rights, and a legal snarl. (www.americascup.com)

We also visited the yacht club's library, an old boys room replete with oriental carpets, dark paneling, and of course, a number of old boys dozing in leather, hob-nailed chairs surrounded by tales of mooncussers, buccaneers and rum runners.

While the guys were in a meeting the girls were going to a museum. This is where I entered the picture and very nearly exited it!

To bring this story to a close: I came out of the NYYC onto a grid-locked, one way street. As I looked toward the oncoming traffic to hail a taxi, I was hit by a car coming from the other direction. The limo driver was completely unaware that he had backed right into me! Fortunately, I was able to slip out of the way before being pancaked. The next time I'm at the New York Yacht Club I'll be sure to take a pass on the museums and join the old boys in a hob-nailed chair instead.

Betsy's aching back.

David and I decided to have pizza and 60 Minutes tonight and zipped over to Nonno's to pick up a half pepperoni (Betsy), half Hawaiian (David) take-and-bake pizza. While the guy at Nonno's was making up our order we browsed through their impressive wine selection.

The wine labels today are fantastic, and I especially liked seeing a South African red called Herding Cats -- it had the back end of a cheetah running off the label.

Just before our pizza was ready I came across Betsy Backacher with the sub-title was Bottle Blond. Now how did Nonno's know to put that bottle out where I would see it? It would have been a good dumb blond joke but I was too tired to be dumb.

At 7:30 this morning I went into the garden to clean up our jungle. My four Mexican helpers who were supposed to arrive at 8:00 showed up at 9:30. Then they wasted my time trying to re-negotiate our agreed upon rate. Eventually they settled down to substandard (unusual for them) work.

By 3:00 p.m. they'd packed up and gone home, each one of them $80 richer. At 5:00, I pulled off my gloves, raked the decaying bits of leaves from my hair and put the spades, pruners, brooms, tarps, weed wacker and leaf blower back where they belong.

My jeans were too dirty to wash so I put them in the trash, then I stood (mostly bent over) in the shower hoping the hot water would wash away my aches and pains. Not.

I was too tired to cook and proposed a pizza from Nonno's.

That is where I saw the bottle of Betsy's Backacher, Bottle Blond wine. (www.spannvineyards.com)

I'd have laughed but my darn back was aching too much, and I'd have bought the wine but didn't have enough cash in my purse for the wine and the pizza. The pizza won out.

Next time I'll get a bottle of Betsy's Backacher just to find out if it will neutralize the pain.

--Betsy