The Atlantic

Setting off from Martinique at a late hour, neither of us were awake to witness our departure. When we finally stirred the Bonavia had long since left land behind, we were now making our way across the Atlantic. The voyage was scheduled to take over 8 days, it felt like a very long stretch having already been on the boat for the same length of time.

The first few days were spent peacefully enough, more reading, lots of sleeping, trying to fill in the gaps between mealtimes. One day we were party to a lifeboat drill, which was surprisingly fun. At 10.30 am the alarm went off and we grabbed our lifejackets. The steward appeared at our cabin ready to lead us to the muster station down on deck 2.

When we arrived most of the crew were already in place. Marco, as designated safety office, was busy shouting instructions when the Captain radioed him to say that he wanted the lifeboat tested. Which in practice meant we had to get in. Not an easy task given the acute angle of the thing, and as our seats were at the rear we had to go first. It was pretty comical attempting to manoeuvre down the boat, particularly as the sea was still a little rough, hut we eventually got to our seats, and had to sit in a position not dissimilar to astronauts at take-off as we waited for the rest of the crew to file down.

By the time we emerged into daylight, everyone was preparing for the fire drill. Presumably for his record keeping, Marco was firing off photographs all the time, as his colleagues went about their duties. The steward took us down into the engine room to watch as a crewman, feigning injury, was loaded onto a stretcher and carried out by his giggling colleagues, such was the "act" he put on. One of the designated fire-fighters was being instructed to wave his hose about as if actually extinguishing a fire as Marco took more photos. Meanwhile another fire-fighter couldn't get his oxygen tank working and looked as though he was about to suffocate, before having his head cover removed by a laughing friend. And then suddenly everyone had gone, leaving us alone in the engine room.

After the fun of the days drills, being a Saturday it was party night (the crew usually work a half day on Sunday so they can afford to let their hair down). The Bonavia didn't have a designated party area, so instead a motley collection of tables and chairs were set up next to the outdoor swimming pool, whilst the chef was busy barbecuing an enormous amount of meat. In the evening when we were called down to dinner we saw how busy he'd been. A huge table was piled high with chicken, ribs, spicy prawns and a Philippine tuna dish, as well as the usual trimmings.

Everybody tucked in, and whilst we ate the officers generously saw that our glasses were kept topped up with a disturbing amount of Vodka. Unusually, the conversation flowed that night (it can be difficult at mealtimes, as we have a separate table in the officers mess, so half of them have their back to us). Whilst Gemma was talking about our travels, I was locked in a debate with the Chief Engineer as to who Phil Collins took over lead vocal duties from in Genesis. By the time I had gone to the cabin to grab my ipod as proof, I was aware that the ship had taken on a whole new movement.

When I returned (triumphantly, I might add), we had received an invitation to continue the party in the crews day room, where most of the crew had gathered to sing on their karaoke machine. I have a hate-hate relationship with singing, but the vodka kept flowing freely, so without much protestation I found myself at the microphone. Those who have ever seen me in such a position will know of the terrors that that entails.

In fairness, I gave a creditable performance of Radiohead's "Creep", and I didn't need to read the lyrics for the Cranberries' "Zombie". But by the time I tried my hand at "Eye of the Tiger" I could barely stand, much less stay in time. Which might explain why I resorted to dancing around the cramped room shadow boxing like a deranged Rocky Balboa. For days afterwards this was how several crewmen greeted me when our paths crossed in the corridors.

Whilst Gemma gave her renditions of "let it be" and "wonderwall" with the crew singing and clapping along, I removed myself from the theatre of conflict (with my tail between my legs) and retired to bed. Except I didn't stay there for long - suffice to say that if you drink copious amounts of vodka at sea, a private bathroom is a necessity, not a luxury.I spent the whole of the following day in bed, nursing one of my worst hang-overs in recent memory, feeling every pitch or judder of the ship deep in my stomach. I didn't make a single meal time either, relying on nothing more than the toast that Gemma made me to see me through. It was a day from hell.

The following days were a lot quieter. We fell back into our routine of eating, reading, and the occasional trip up to the bridge to check on our progress. There was a small party one night to celebrate the Oilers birthday (I politely but firmly refused all attempts to ply me with vodka, and was somewhat relieved when the ships supply ran dry). By this time we'd been onboard for 2 weeks, and it wouldn't be unfair to say we were becoming a little restless, beginning to think of certain land based luxuries. For my part I was dreaming about stone-baked pizzas, for Gemma tiger bread and the Peterborough scores.

One evening as we neared Madeira we did hit a small storm, as the wind picked up you could feel the ship being tossed about on the waves. As it was late we tried to sleep through it, but without success as one by one everything that could fall down in the cabin did. One moment, laying stretched out on my back on the bed, I suddenly found my knees uncontrollably approaching my face at a rate of knotts - thank god I'm not flexible, I would have knocked myself out. It was not unlike trying to sleep in a flight simulator, the motion was neither constant nor rhythmic, it jerked you and pulled you about. Later on the bridge the second officer, Dominic, told us the old sailors trick is to line the sides of your mattress with bottles, so it forms a "U" shape in the bed, which keeps you safely inside.

As we approached the coast of Spain, our thoughts began to turn to our route home. We have considered several variables including Seville, Granada, Ronda, and Gibraltar, before heading inland to Madrid and Barcelona and then making our way through France and back home. We haven't quite settled on a final route yet. But having now finished our final sea voyage, we'd like to give you the benefits of our experience of the Pacific, Caribbean and Atlantic, our " 10 point guide to life on a container ship" if you like.

Ten Truths About Life At Sea:

1. A ship does not need an ocean full of huge waves to be thrown about. On some of our roughest days the sea was flat.
2. Contrary to the holiday brochures, the oceans are not full of whales and dolphins. Inevitably, on the brief occasions when they are spotted, you will be in the toilet.
3. Sailors do not say "land ahoy", "batten down the hatches", or "hoist the main sail" anymore. Attempts to do so may be considered disrespectful.
4. Avoid all discussions which necessitate the need to google the answer. All parties will be left unsatisfied.
5. The "serious" matter of the abandon ship drill may well be the comical highlight of the week. Unless a land-lubber like you or I is given vodka and a karaoke machine.
6. Disney has lied to you, sailors no longer wear parrots and eye patches. They now have hard-hats. Do not attempt to elicit a "pieces of eight" from a hard-hat. It is frowned upon.
7. Soup will be served every day, but never a drop is spilled. You will rarely see fish on the menu, unless you catch it yourself. And forget entirely about sushi.
8. Sailors no longer drink rum - they drink vodka. In prodigious quantities.
9. Sailors are prone to extreme generosity when pouring you a drink.
10. The middle of the ocean is not a suitable place to be nursing a hang-over. In fact it's the worst place on the planet for that.

Back at Sea: The Caribbean

We were woken at 2.30am by the port agent assigned to take us to the dock. We piled our bags into his rundown car, and before we had the chance to locate our seatbelts we were being flung around the empty streets of Limon. We arrived at Puerto Moin in a disconcerting short time for 9km, but just as the car pulled up to the customs gates our agent received a phone call - the customs officer had overslept. So leaving us sat outside the gates he went ahead to begin his tasks.

Even at 3am the humidity was impressive, and our lack of sleep was starting to tell. From our position outside the port we could make out our ship quite clearly, potentially even our very bedroom which we longed to stagger into. An hour later the agent returned to take us inside, the customs official wiped the sleep from his eyes and took our passports, casually flicking through trying to find our Costa Rica entry stamps without a hope in such dim light. Leaning on the bonnet of the rusty car he stamped us out of the country.

We made our way over to the MV Bonavia and climbed the surprisingly sturdy gangway onto the ships deck. A member of the crew met us at the top and led us into the ships office, where we were introduced to two of the Bonavia's officers who needed to inspect our bags, even though they conceded we didn't look like traditional smugglers (I'd left my eye patch at home). After discovering nothing more incriminating than a few bags of coffee we were shown to our cabin, high up the ships tower, where we finally passed out.

Without much to do the following day except a brief tour of the tower structure and some safety instructions, I decided to take a stroll on the dock so that I could get some exterior short of the boat. I popped down to the office to ask permission. "One moment please sir, I must check with the master" said the steward. When he returned I was granted permission, with the important caveat that I must wear a hard hat at all times, and given what had just happened I must take extra care. Except nobody mentioned what had just happened.

I made my way down to the dock and began hunting for suitable angles to snap the ship. As I made my way about, carefully checking for moving vehicles and cranes I discovered what had just occurred. From the look of the scene in front of me there had been a terrible accident, it appeared as though somehow a container had been dropped on top of a stevedore. Several men stood about, some obviously in shock, while men in uniforms took statements, just yards away from a blood soaked blanket. I decided to return to the ship at this point, docks are dangerous places at the best of times and the last thing this poor man's colleagues needed to see was a snap-happy tourist waving his camera about.

Later we met the captain and asked him for the details. He explained that the crane drivers are often unsighted when moving the containers around, relying on radio instruction from the ground. In this case, one of the men on the ground, an experienced stevedore in his sixties, had dropped his hard hat underneath a descending container and dived under to retrieve it. It's little consolation, but everyone felt terribly sorry for the man, his family and of course the unfortunate crane driver.

Because of the investigation into the accident, all loading work stopped for several hours,and the crew spent the time preparing for the voyage, so we didn't have much of an opportunity to interact with anyone. Having experienced this before, we knew there would be plenty of time to meet everyone on the voyage, so we just relaxed in the cabin with our books, enjoying having our own room alongside use of the captains lounge and his private kitchen.

The following morning we were woken by the smell of bacon being cooked - five floors below us. We threw our clothes on and ran downstairs, enticed by the prospect of proper bacon (we're fed up of the American, glass-like bacon out here). Whilst we were tucking in two tugs began attaching lines to the Bonavia, and by the time we returned to our cabin we were leaving the port of Moin behind us. Within minutes the ship was bouncing around on the waves, and we both realised we were going to "feel" this voyage a lot more than onboard the Miami. Looking out of the porthole you could clearly see the ship dip, then ride the wave, then dip suddenly again. We moved a surprising amount considering how calm the sea looked.

Still trying to recover from the effects of our last night only land, we couldn't muster up enough enthusiasm to explore the ship, and it was too rough to wander to the bow anyway, so we spent most of our first day at sea in the cabin. We had two singles beds and a small seating area, as well as a small shower and toilet. It wasn't quite as luxurious as the Miami, and the interior decor as bit dated (the ship was built in 1995) but still more than sufficient for our needs.

As darkness fell over the Caribbean sea the wind and waves picked up again, we were both woken several times during the night as the Bonavia lurched awkwardly, causing us to roll, or objects in our cabin to fall. It wasn't quite a storm, but more than enough to hint at the power of the waves. By the time we woke, nearly lunchtime, we were both nursing sore muscles from all the movement in the night. I was starting to turn a little "green" but some food made me feel better.

Then next couple of days passed peacefully enough, we fell into a routine based around the daily meal times (breakfast: 7am; lunch: midday; dinner: 5pm). On our third day at sea we spotted land through our cabin porthole, the island of Hispaniola (one third Haiti, two thirds Dominican Republic), and prepared for our first stop at Puerto Caucedo. As the afternoon turned into evening the lights on land shone like little beacons, so we put on our shoes and prepared our wallets. We were a little premature, however, not landing until nearly 8pm. By the time we had docked, and customs had cleared the ship it was gone 9pm, and no-one could give a definite answer as to what time the ship would leave.

Rather than spend 100 dollars for a taxi into Santo Domingo, we joined the Captain, his assistant, and the Port Agent on a dash to a supermarket. We were given shore leave passes as if we were crew, so the five of us raced down the gangway into the agent's pick-up truck. We sped through the modern, surprisingly well equipped port (more like a smaller version of Busan than dirty, dangerous Moin), showed our shore leave passes to the officials and raced out into the darkness. The Port Agent, our driver, constantly fingering his Blackberry whilst steering (I've noticed all Port Agents never seem to leave their phones alone).

We reached the Supermarket 30 minutes before closing, so while the captain and his assistant sped around grabbing all the fresh vegetables in sight, we did likewise in the soft drink and snack aisles. Without the time to evaluate our purchases we ended up with $40 of junk, but fortunately I had enough money left to lend the Captain $30 to pick up some cigars he had been hankering after, he'd maxed out his card on two entire trolleys of fresh food.

By the time we returned to the Bonavia the container operations were well under way. We fell asleep to the sound of mechanical cranes lifting and dropping those great metal boxes. Until we were woken briefly but abruptly at 5am when a random alarm sounded. As we staggered out into the hallway, our bleary eyed and half-dressed shipmates told us we could go back to bed, it was a false alarm. When we awoke naturally we had left the Dominican Republic behind us, and were once again bobbing about on the Caribbean.

We didn't see land again for another two days. For some reason I had imagined we would constantly be spotting little islands, trying to guess their names. Instead we'd spent most of our time reading. But eventually we were able to watch with curiosity as the mountainous, green island of Martinique fell into focus, appearing far larger than I had expected it to. Over dinner the Captain explained that we were not due to land until the next day, but he invited us onto the bridge to watch him "park"the boat.

Up six flights of stairs (not easy after a heavy dinner) the Captain was receiving his instructions from the port authorities through his radio, then issuing commands to a junior seaman stood at the wheel. We watched from the front as a huge raincloud enveloped the land, hiding it from our view, before creeping over the ship too. The rain lashed against the bridge reducing visibility considerably, thankfully the GPS equipment did it's job.

As soon as the anchor had been dropped the Captain excitedly asked us if we liked fishing, and told us to head down to the back of the ship. By the time we got there several of the crew and officers had already cast their lines out and were fighting over the best spaces. Someone had rigged a light so that it shone just above the surface of the water, and an optimist had already fetched the ice box from the galley.

Marco, the third officer, gave us his line as he was due to report on duty, so we took it in turns to try our luck. It was a crude form of line we used, but not without it's merits as Gemma landed two fish on her first attempt. I wasn't so successful, reeling in a large tangled mess of seaweed (and getting the line all caught up in knots), but perseverance paid off and I eventually caught myself a red snapper.

Amongst the Philippine crew members the fishing got quite competitive, with several lines becoming tangled during the proceedings, but everyone laughed, drank beers and shared in each others success - particularly as the Cook had promised to rustle up something special for lunch the next day. On top of our normal large portions he prepared us a whole Philippine style fish each, which was delicious, but there wasn't much of it because of the size of fish we'd caught.

An hour after lunch we docked at Port Pointe de Grive on the outskirts of Fort de France. Strangely the customs officials didn't even bother with the boat, so the Port Agent drove us downtown without any hassle. It wasn't how I'd imagined a French Caribbean town to look. There were odd touches of colonial France such as the pastel coloured shutters on windows, and splashes of the Caribbean like the Rastafarian themed t-shirts for sale, but somehow I felt the capital of Martinique was disappointingly ugly when viewed up close, it felt a little unloved, a forgotten outpost.

I wondered whether this changed the moment a cruise ship was spotted on the horizon. Does someone run around removing the graffiti whilst his friend repaints the shutters to look more like the postcards, and yet more people begin setting up stalls selling coconut or seashells in the grey expanse of the concrete car park. Does travelling in the way we are, as the only two passengers on the only cargo ship to arrive that day, give you the chance to see a town with it's proverbial pants down? Not that I either want, nor expect a town to put on a show for me. I just didn't feel any of the charm that has supposedly made Martinique a playground for the rich and famous.

Final Days In Central America

We set off from San Jose with a spring in our step, for two different reasons. Gemma was delighted that I had relented, agreeing to wait out the time for our boat by sitting on sun drenched, palm fringed Caribbean beaches. Personally I was really looking forward to getting our next boat, and relieved to be beginning our journey home. Not that I disliked Costa Rica, but with every passing day I am missing home comforts more and more.

As our bus took us through Limon, the town we would be catching our boat from, it was a good opportunity to scout the local area. We knew we'd be coming through laden with our bags and unsure of the safety situation here, so it helps to know what you are getting into. The Lonely Planet was less than complimentary, and in the words of one local resident "it's a shit-hole". We thought that description was unfair. It was a shit-hole with a beautiful cemetery.

Fortunately the bus turned off the main road and began following a twisting jungle road within earshot of the ocean. 60km further on the bus practically emptied when it stopped in Puerto Viejo, an ugly little town famed for drinking, surfing and more drinking. But we'd done our research, and stayed on for a further 6km to be dropped in Punta Uva, a sleepy hamlet just steps from a deserted shoreline.

Our hostel came with a good rating, and we were disappointed. It was a wooden structure, half treehouse, half beachcombers shack set a little way back from the beach in amongst the abundant foliage, where humming birds routinely buzzed the open air lounge and the distinctive call of howler monkeys can be heard from your hammocks. In fact the only downside to this tropical paradise was the weather - pouring rain being the overwhelming feature during our stay.

There wasn't a great deal to do there except while away the hours on the beach, in the hammock, or take a stroll through the jungle to the nearest supermarket. But that suited us just fine. The few attractions that did exist were very expensive, so we treated ourselves to just one.

The Jaguar Rescue Centre, half-way between Punta Uva and Puerto Viejo, was something I had read about before we arrived, so I was determined to go. We caught the morning bus and arrived in time for a guided tour of the centre. Robbie, an English Biologist, greeted us by introducing us to their fine snake collection which included an open fronted exhibit of bright yellow eyelash pit vipers. The snakes here are often bred, sent to a research institute in San Jose where their venom is collected for use in making anti-venom, and then returned to the wild. Apparently San Jose makes so much anti-venom now they are able to export it to several other countries in Latin America.

We were also shown a beautiful Margay which was fed a live mouse (not for the faint hearted) and breakfast time in the toucan cage. The frog pond was fascinating, we were both delighted to finally witness a green tree frog. I take that back, we'd seen thousands, on t-shirts, hats, post-cards, even shot glasses, just no live ones before.

But the exhibit we had really come for was the Howler Monkeys. I knew Gemma was still disappointed that she hadn't been able to interact with them at Arcas, so to get the chance here was fantastic, although I'll admit I juggled with the ethics of such an experience.

Entering the enclosure the monkies seemed a little shy at first, albeit with curiosity of the giants (us) who had just walked into their home. But soon enough they were happily jumping, sitting and swinging about us. One little fellow mistook my arm for a branch and dangled from it by his tail quite happily for a minute, while his friend tried to nibble my Casio watch. Another sat on Gemma's head while a fourth jumped onto her shoulders. I'll admit it, it was a hell of a lot of fun.

In fact it was the opposite of our teaching at Arcas. There they had preached to us the need for minimising human contact, banning talking to, or playing with the animals whilst working in their enclosure. Here, for fifteen minutes we had the opportunity to play with these enchanting animals. The two sites also had a different approach to releasing the animals. At Arcas they would form social groups to be released en-masse, the whole group undergoing to "re-training" together. Here they would take the older monkeys on a jungle walk every afternoon to allow them to interact with the jungle, and the wild monkeys. It was effectively up to each monkey to decide if they wanted to return to the centre or stay with their new friends.

Being no great expert, I couldn't begin to debate which was the better strategy. I can certainly see logic in both. The Arcas ideal makes a lot of sense, as the monkeys are likely to encounter poachers in the wild, so they shouldn't get to used to human contact, having said that the ones which get released here will have no choice but to live next to the humans who have made this coastline home, and I also like the idea of the monkey being free to chose when he wants to stay in the wild, and the chance to join an already established social group must carry some benefits too.

Politics of animal rescue aside, we also got to see lots of sloths up close (both the two toed and three toed variety). The guide asked how you could tell them apart, which saw me lurch dangerously close to a comedy answer (I resisted). One particularly cute sloth got a little camera shy and covered his face with a blanket. It was a pretty wonderful place to visit for a few hours, our last chance to enjoy some of Costa Rico's unique wildlife.

Back at the hostel we made contact, via email, with the port agents. They had copied in several different people, with segments of useful information coming from each: "the boat is due to arrive at 6pm"; "you must be in Limon at midday"; "you need to meet this person"; "he is at this office". All missing the vital information, the address. Whereas in Korea one man took charge and arranged everything, here the old adage about "too many cooks" felt like it was conning true.

Expecting the boat to dock at 6pm, we made our way to Limon on a local, slightly decrepit bus, driving at breakneck speed along the beautiful coastal road. In town we walked to the agency office (I found the way courtesy of google maps) to meet one of our many contacts. He greeted us with the news that the MV Bonavia's docking time had been delayed until midnight, 12 hours away. "Be back in the office by 11pm" he said before shuffling us out of the office, minus our bags.

Eleven hours was a lot of time to spend in Limon, too much. We didn't find it quite as scary as the Lonely Planet had suggested, but by 8pm we had exhausted all possible activities. Lunch and dinner had come and gone, we had wasted a few hours in an internet cafe, and bought a few last minute provisions, so we returned to the office to sit out the last three hours.

But when we returned we discovered the gates had been locked and all the lights were off. Fortunately the night-watchman heard our loud (and possibly uncouth) protestations! He allowed us inside and made a phone call, informing us the boat was now delayed until 4am. It's in the very nature of this kind of travel, so we weren't too disheartened. Instead we fashioned crude makeshift pillows from our belongings and settled down on the tiled floor of the darkened office to steal forty winks.