The gossip...

The final few entries are funny and very juicy. For  legal/commercial reasons I am unable to post my final blog entries for a few days or a week or so.

Apologies for the delay. Become a “Follower” you will automatically receive  the final three posts. (I think).

Keep watching, it’s worth the wait …

Settling into Cape Verde: May 2011

We were invited to a Sunday lunchtime barbie, Scottish-style, with Tam, Jenny and their seven year old son, Kieran. Holly and Joe would start their new school tomorrow and Jenny generously felt it would be nice for them to recognise a friendly face there. All very civilised. Nine hours of drinking, drivelling (and probably dribbling) with Glaswegians later we stumbled home at 10pm, via the pub.

It wasn’t the most responsible thing we’ve ever done as parents, and I’m not proud of myself. But, with hindsight, we felt that we had probably done Holly and Joe a favour. Exhausted, they set off for school, unfazed  by something so trivial as the inability to speak Portuguese, the teachers’ language of choice.

Holly, loved her first few days at school – a new girl at the centre of attention. Her class is a melting pot of European prima-donnas and middle class Cape Verdean boys. I will never understand how she sat in a classroom full of strangers who babbled at her in a totally foreign language. I had prepped them both with some basic “Bom dia” phrases and the briefest dally with conjugating Present Tenses, but they were both bored with my classes.

Joe didn’t settle in easily. His class is predominantly local street boys, who have grown up unnoticed and  unguided – his worse case scenario.  He struggles to fit into new routines and environments (I’m sure he thinks he’s adopted). My little lamb was forced to live in pastures new. As usual, he bottled up his worries and after a few days burst out with the predictable “Nobody likes me!” drama. A pep talk eased his worries, but inside my heart was broken.

In public, we were telling our families that the children were flying, embracing their new friends and playground fun after six months of home tuition without a home. They loved the kudos of new boy/girl in class.

In private, they were shattered in body and spirit. Their school bus collects them at 7.35am and returns them home at 6pm. Their concentration limits must be through the roof.  They are bright children - the shark  table, not the jellyfish table for them in England. Now they were “estupido” (Joe) and “shat” (gobby show-off : Holly).

Teachers don’t mediate playground tiffs, and arguments are resolved with a punch, a scratch or a kick. My little European boy severely missed his Reception teacher and her matronly concern. Encouraged by their headmistress, the pointless English Tae Kwon Do manoeuvres were swiftly  ditched and cage fighting tactics engaged. Don’t wait to be hit, get in there first, whether it’s a boy or girl. I hated to hear the savage lessons taught by their father, but they were crucial if Joe were to claw his way from the bottom of the ladder, the easy target of every bully in the playground.

We had chosen the private school as we hoped for a more civilised class of pupils, and they taught their classes in Portuguese rather than local Creole, which is a bit like a Yorkshireman’s dialect – the basic Queen’s English is in there somewhere, give or take the odd missing vowel and word ending, It’s the best we could offer them, yet I suffer a colossal amount of  maternal guilt about the path I have chosen for them. It terrifies me, the ordeal to which I subject them every day.

To my incredible pride and astonishment, they get on the school bus every morning with hardly a complaint of how tough it must be for them.

So, they are absorbing the language, and there’s lots of pointing and gestures going on. I wasn’t sure what Joseph’s hitting-his-willy-with-his-drink-bottle action demonstrated, but he assured me all the boys were doing it. My worry was that Joe had instigated it all, and we were judged a bunch of chavs.

I have my doubts about their long-term education here, and we will have to forge a very successful business in Santa Maria, if  I am going to balance out the sacrifices.

 

As to our own achievements, we spoke to the developer of our complex today – a Don Pietro. He is part of the Italian big boy society out here, and Tony revelled in his status as amico to the local Don Corleone figure. 

Afterwards, we pottered off to the supermarket to buy some potatoes and realised what small fish we are in this pond.

By Mid-May, we surely deserved a little fun, and stumbled across a most entertaining Sunday jolly at the beach. An upmarket apartment complex launched, celebrated with an extended weekend of partying for the well-connected. All sorts of  bigwigs and their plus-ones were invited - the President of  Cape Verde, Sophie Ellis-Bextor, Diversity, the Salters.

Actually, we had gone kiting on the sand-dunes about five minutes around the bay from the hotel. We heard the party music blasting out and naturally thought we should explore.

 

A sea of white European faces in their Monsoon maxi dresses and linen trousers clinked cocktail glasses with similar desirables. We stood outside the gate covered in sand and suntan lotion, Tesco beach bag in one hand and kites in the other.

After the Security Guard assured us the hotel was open to the public, we headed off for a totally innocent mooch. Via the bars, the swimming pools and top-class restaurant.  A few hours later we were chillaxing on the beach sofas, nodding our heads at the beach party DJed by Sophie.

As you might expect, we got caught by the hotel manager (inconveniently, our next-door-neighbour). I felt like a naughty five year old, but was it worth it? Oh, yes.

The following weekend, we were invited to clean up the main turtle-nesting beach. A lot of  fishermen’s rubbish and broken bottles find themselves swept in from the sea.

Besides the litter problems, poachers also kill the turtles for their meat and eggs. Joe and Danny played with their “boomerangs”, until the rangers explained they were sun-bleached turtle bones from de-capitated victims. Local folklore suggests that unlaid eggs from slaughtered turtles can be popped into the local hooch, offering aphrodisiacal qualities. 

The hitch in collecting scattered litter was a driftwood super-splinter which speared into my thigh and had to be sliced out with a razor-blade at the clinic. If you ask Tony, he will say it was only a centimetre long, but I’m claiming more matchstick-sized!

 

May 26^th notched up our 10 Year wedding anniversary. Most couples celebrate with a romantic break  to Paris,  or tickets to the theatre, perhaps even a gold bracelet.  We "bought" wristbands for the local 5 star hotel and indulged in an evening of all-inclusive food  and drink. We tripped home many pina coladas later, geared up for another 10 more years!
 On May 27^th, I jumped on the school bus with a heinous hangover. I had foolishly arranged to paint the faces of 25 three to four year olds at Daniel’s playschool.  I hadn’t organised an Official Birthday Party, so I defused my guilt with a freebie face painting sesh.

I told the teacher that I would decorate each child’s cheek with a small motif (thus sparing me much time and energy, in my fragile state). With typical teacher fascism she blustered me into painting a full face each. 15 butterflies, 5 Spidermen, 4 pirates and a tiger later, I felt I had duly done my bit.

May 29^th celebrated Daniel’s 4^th Birthday. Keeping consistent with protocol for child number three, it was very low-key (code for cheap). No Mr Custard magic man at £200 a pop for him. We went to the beach, and ate lots of cake and ice-cream. His official treat was a pool party, with pass the parcel and general frolicking about in the sunshine.

My last day of May was spent running round the main town of Espargos (Asparagus), looking for Fidel Castro, a local town council employee I needed to talk to. Glancing behind me, I expected to catch a small army of local officials sniggering at me from behind lamp posts. Eventually I found him, and didn’t even raise a giggle. I’m used to it. Cape Verdean’s tucked into crazy baby names way before Gwyneth’s Apple. Telecommunications seems the way to go here. I have met so many Ericssons and can’t wait for a Nokia. Maybe he lives in the small Chinese community around the corner?

Well, that’s May 2011. It has been full of hard work (for the children) and fun (for the family). Our holiday has finished and the reality of hard work and commitment has begun.

I hope we can make this our home. The potential is there, so let’s keep our fingers crossed.

Our arrival in Cape Verde and first impressions: March 2011

This beach really is five minutes walk from my apartment. How lucky am I?

At 7am on Wednesday 9^th March, we watched our 17 removal boxes slowly shuffle up the loading track onto the Thomson’s Manchester flight to Sal, Cape Verde. They looked suspiciously like 17 little coffins nudging their way beyond the curtain. As a believer of signs in life, I tried not to think about this with any deeper meaning.

Just so you know where I live.

The check-in staff had split our seating allocation, so Tony was bestowed the pleasure of entertaining two little boys who had become rather too used to the high-life of scheduled airlines and their backseat TVs. Holly nabbed the aisle seat and settled down to a six hour DS-fest.

By a stroke of serious good fortune, I bagged the peace of a window seat, all by myself, for the first time in nearly ten years. The peace didn’t last too long. I have never seen so much alcohol consumed on board an aircraft, even the posh flights to Asia with the free in-flight bar. Panicked by six hours without a Wetherspoons, my fellow passengers ordered two or three drinks per person, per trolley dash  up the aircraft. I could tell the man next to me was going to stay at the plush 4 star Riu, as he ordered a box of After Eights to go with his Stellas.

By the end of the flight. Kidding. Or am I?

Eventually, we touched down and minutes later I felt the warmth of the hot, African sun penetrate the very pores of my skin. I’m not a doctor, but I’m sure I photosynthesised.

One hour later and we headed to resort, past the Bay of Murdeira and into Santa Maria.

Our boxes wouldn’t be ready for collection until at least tomorrow, so we grabbed a cheeky bar snack and set off for the beach.


I had spent years as a Travel Agent explaining how lucky my customers were, to find a hotel 200 metres walking distance from a Caribbean-standard golden beach with warm crystal-clear waters lapping at your toes. And here was my home. Occasional palm trees swaying in the breeze, fishermen hauling their last catch of the day onto the pier and the warm, bright smile of the local Cape Verdean islanders.

We had foolishly gambled with an off-plan apartment purchase on the internet, back in the heady days of success, before the recession took hold of our fortune and tossed it like a caber into the swamp known as “poor financial decision-making.” But the gamble had paid off. The apartment was complete, with the banana tree garden replacing  the frost of England’s green pastures.

A calm peace snuck into my soul and I realised that we held ahead of us the ultimate opportunity to live the dream, on our own small piece of desert island.

Friday 28th January. Happy New Year, once more, Hong Kong City.

The hotel buzzer screamed a 5 am wake-up call. My children looked absolutely shattered as we knew they would be. Hong Kong was a purely adult indulgence, to finish off our trip with a touch of class. We couldn’t leave them at the Left Luggage Desk, so they had to come with us.

We anticipated a day of cajoling and bribery if we were to sample even half the itinerary planned for our “One day in Hong Kong” rampage.

Too early for the breakfast bar to open, we stared at our foreign currency and bought  a tidy selection of freshly prepared dim sums, pork baps, donuts and a packet of Walkers Seaweed flavour crisps at the local bakery.

We munched happily on our picnic whilst riding the underground MTR train, smiling happily at the early morning commuters staring back at us. This is Hong Kong, surely they must be used to the odd European face by now? Only later in the day did I notice a sign strictly prohibiting eating or drinking on the train.

On a scale of 1 to 10, I’m not really sure how terrible a faux-pas we made, but their usually impassive, emotion-less faces did show the slightest tweak of a grimace.

Our first stop – a local street market. What delicacies could we spy? Fish were so fresh, they were flapping and fighting for their final breaths in the shallow plastic trays sitting on tables. Luckily for Danny, not a toad in sight to worry over (see Chinatown, San Francisco), but the boys didn’t mind the squids and other spiny, tentacled creatures dying a slow, harrowing, suffocating death.

Through the furniture market we browsed, and with a favourable exchange rate I spied some beautiful hand-crafted tables, dressers and stools. Tony, with usual male disinterest muttered “weight allowance” and sloped off.

Next, we solemnly entered the Man Mo Buddhist temple in the centre of the city.  A traditional and historic temple, with incense sticks and candles slowly burning, it offered the peace needed for serenity and clear thought.

Built in the 19th century, it enshrines Man Cheong – the God of Literature and Kwan Yu the God of War. Legend and tradition dictates that if two people have a disagreement, both should make a promise of reconciliation in the temple and write it, along with a curse or punishment, on a piece of yellow paper. They then kill a chicken, chop off its head, let its blood drip onto the paper, and burn the paper. It is believed that because the promise is made before the gods, if the individual breaks the promise they will suffer the appropriate curse.

  

I like it! Can you imagine the damage Daniel could rage if only he could write? I remember one day, when my brother and I were 14 and 10 years old, respectively, we stood in the garden outside my bedroom window waiting for Mum to take us to school. She was ages. We got round to arguing and both parties threatened the tales we were going to tell Mum: blowing your nose on the curtains (my brother), stealing sweets from my Dad’s newsagents (me, of course), not owning up to breaking a glass pop bottle, resulting in my Mum needing stitches in her hand (me, again), looking at the rudy top shelf mags in the Newsagents with Grandad on a Saturday night (definitely not me).Of course, my Mum was ages precisely because she was standing at the other side of the net curtains, listening to our inadvertent confessions.

We would have fared much better by killing a slug and dripping it’s slime onto a written, cursed scrap of paper promising instant death to anyone being horrible. Much more fun.

So, with the necessary shushing and shoving, we pottered around the wood carvings, ornate statues and stepladders (monks were hanging out paper garlands preparing for Chinese New Year). We tried to look as respectful and sober as possible, and when we felt we had shown sufficient contemplation of  life, we scarpered. Time for some escalator races.

By now, the staircases were stomping uphill, and the kids had the most fun clambering up about 20 sets of them to the summit; Tony not so joyous pushing the stroller behind us.

We trundled past authentic Hong Kong life here: grey concrete apartments, knickers flapping on washing lines in the breeze, fast food burger joints with amusing mis-spelt menus, a population of  TV aerials, rusty push-bikes, overflowing dustbins… the usual behind-the-scenes drudgery to any chic big city façade.

Bizarrely, half-way up Victoria Peak there exists a Botanical Gardens & Zoo, so we stopped off here to enjoy it awhile. The monkeys, lemurs and tamarins were going nuts and no sulking in a corner for them. They showed off more gymnastics action than a Chinese Olympic bootcamp.

 The Botanical Gardens warned us it was the breeding season of an inherent local population of spitting cobras or similar disturbing serpent. “Do not walk near the gardens or plants” posters were pinned everywhere, quite defeating the purpose of a Botanical Garden.

We settled down for a picnic on the benches, with Holly, for some reason, peeing her pants in hysterics at an older lady practising Tai Chi. Being an eight year old, she stood directly behind her and also pretended to be a chameleon walking on scorching hot desert sands.

One of my highlights was a trip up the funicular tram to the top of Victoria Peak. My parents had memories of walking to its summit many years ago, past the stinking unsanitary peasants’ shacks to the wonders waiting above.

The guide book told me that in days gone by, the rich people lived at the base of the mountain, and the poorer residents were forced to trek up and down the hill for their own daily routine.  As often happens, social change occurs, and suburbs switch places. An opulent gentleman had believed himself much superior to everybody else living in the City and decided to live at the very pinnacle of Victoria Peak, far away from the stench of the poor and the hum-drum banality of the nowhere-near-as-rich. So he built a railway, to carry himself up the mountainside to his residence in the heavens. Over time, the fairly rich followed him up there and the neighbourhoods swapped over.

The train journey was pretty steep, cut through housing estates, then stone sediment and finally a forest.  The kids didn’t overly enjoy the “ride, ” tears and general wailing giving their game away.  But, upon arrival, we enjoyed the Oriental kitch we had hoped for. The shopping complex at the top was a mecca for tourist tat: “Oops, I farted” alarm clocks, golden cats with mechanical waving arms, Mickey Mouse necklaces.

Today was the start of the preparation for Chinese New Year (of the Rabbit) and so everywhere was decked in cherry-red felt material and bunny rabbit decor. Jessica Rabbit, Bugs Bunny, Lindt chocolate bunnies scanned our every move.

Our first activity was the Wheel of Fortune spinning wheel, sitting in one of those foyer areas you find in large shopping centres (normally offering you the chance to win some super-fast lads car). Waiting patiently for their turn, the over-excited boys swung and swung to their little hearts content, and Joe forgot to let go and tripped off the podium into the audience below. A good start.

After a bowl of cheap McNoodles each, we hiked further into the clouds onto the Observation Deck, which was really high.

From behind the glass-barriered edge, we looked out onto an amazing panorama of Hong Kong harbour – a forest of tower block housing and office units, hemmed in by a sweeping blanket of woodland.

At the very apex sat a “Love Tree” – an oversized bonsai twig, where you could write a message of love on a heart-shaped tag, attach it to a branch, showing the world who you loved and why.  Joe wrote “I love Mummy and everybody else”.  Holly wrote “It’s really high and scary here. I HATE it”. Ever the romantic, our Holly.

We tricked the kids into queuing for the funicular back down the slope. And just for fun, I barged the opposition out of the way and bagsied front seat rows for extra pleasure. The joy of seeing their little faces howling again; I wish my camera wasn’t broken.

A short bus trip down to the harbour and we caught a Star Ferry to Kowloon on the North Shore. The 15 minute journey took us from the high rise wharf in the south to  the more retail side of town in the north. I think.

We metro-ed it to the Flower Market, which was crammed full of the most colourful, beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen. Buckets full of orchids and birds of paradise, in every colour of the rainbow. Row after row of shops competed to sell flowers only seen in the best florists back in England. (Not a Bloomin’ Marvellous or Floral ‘n’ Hardy in sight).

Vendors sell little golden ribbons and bows for you to tie onto the branches of  shrubs, usually miniature orange trees. Internet research told me that people used to write their wishes on a piece of paper tied to an orange. They threw the orange into Hong Kong’s Lam Tseun wishing tree and if the paper caught in the branches and hung there, their wishes would come true.

I suppose these marketplace trees and attached bows symbolise these wishing trees. A lovely fairy-tale idea. 

We carefully avoided the Bird Market nearby, as I didn’t want myself or the children to be left with distressing images of poor little chaffinches trapped in tiny wicker cages, or de-capitated chickens with paper curses swinging off their feet.

 So, we headed for the Goldfish Market instead, not nearly so cute, but less likely to cause bad dreams and nightmares. We marvelled at tank after tank of multi-coloured goldfish bobbing merrily along. Personally, I don’t understand why people own fish, except maybe tropical ones.

My Mum used to have a tropical fish tank at her hairdressers salon. We added to the collection over the years, and one kind customer even given Mum a pitbull of a fish one day as a present. The old dears loved the neon guppies and angel fish tiddling around, until one day we realised why the fish were disappearing one by one, Scooby Doo style. We caught the shark munching half a Kissing Gourami in it’s mouth, and threw it down the toilet – now we knew why the old lady had given us such an unusual gift. (PS. This isn't a photo of my Mum - she would kill me for letting you think this was her).

Anyway, the boys for some unknown reason were entranced by the fish, and Holly enjoyed the cute little kittens and puppies for sale. I like to imagine they were destined to be pets, too.

About this point, the day took an irretrievable turn for the worse. Jetlag and a stream of early morning wake-ups took their toll. Danny got tummy ache and was the first to begin sobbing. As any good parent would, I tried to find a cheery diversion for him, and headed for the cheap market stalls. One ginormous bag of pick ‘n’ mix sweets later, everyone’s a winner. Trying to grab the sweet seller’s attention whilst standing next a horde of rotund blabbering Hong Kong women, each clutching a bag of strawberry bonbons to their breasts, was not an easy task.   

Daniel perked up and then Holly decided to get tummy ache and, in all honesty, didn’t really get over it for the rest of the day. She is a toughie, but when’s she’s tired her body struggles with niggly aches and complaints. We did our best to ignore her, plying her with more chewy toffees and back to the map for further study.

As I had broken my camera in the rainforest (see Dorrigo National Park, Australia), I bought a nice new replacement on the Electronic Goods road. Being Hong Kong, all trading deals must be finely embellished, with one party coming out with a slightly better deal than he had hoped for. For example, I was given a free memory card, a free camera case and least importantly, a free Hello Kitty mug, which I gave to a girl at the ice cream parlour. (Even I have limits on hoarding).

Deflated and in need of a tonic, we tucked into the last ice cream of our holiday. The children were absolutely knackered and the grown-ups sadly aware that the final seconds of the trip were ticking away into the twilight sky.

As night-time approached, the city adopted her second schizophrenic personality. The daytime tedium of scurrying about trying to buy, sell, work and generally ferret, was now a box firmly closed.

A new box opened, a Jack-in-the-Box, bounding with the happy energy of a promising night out. The streets became a chaotic mix of steaming food stalls, furry-costumed street promoters, tourists, adolescent teenagers and neon flashing signs; it was just like the Channel 4 TV advert floating past, just before Desperate Housewives on a Wednesday night.

Revitalised, we drew a line under Part One: Daytime, and slipped into Part Two: The Evening. I got down to the serious business of  bric-a-brac shopping in Temple Street night market. Just a little bit of luggage allowance had been reserved for statues, trinkets and unnecessary knick-knacks.

With classic timing, Holly’s whingeing really kicked in and I couldn’t concentrate on shopping. I think she had been bribed by Tony. I really needed to buy my marble dragon and a quartz Buddha, but just couldn’t focus.

Fighting against time, we hit the harbourside for the 8pm Symphony of  Lights show – the skyscrapers would flash with iconic neon rays of light. Personally, I had seen enough flashing lights in Las Vegas, and my bar was raised. Nothing less than the Aurora Borealis would rock my world now.

Pushing a woozy eight year old around in a pushchair takes time and effort, so realistically we didn’t get close enough to the waterfront to fully enjoy the show. We watched it from a behind some building works  a few hundred feet away - not quite the vantage point I had hope for, but Holly was now in tears.

View from Google Images - not from the building site.

Blaming  false advertising, I expected a ballet of lights pirouetting in time with Handel’s Water Music. The previously-mentioned dancing bunnies on the side of a tower block failed to ignite my passion a second time over. Perhaps we were just in the wrong place at the right time. Well, slightly late as well, if truth be told.

That’s me – I’m always trying to squeeze one last tiny piece of fun into the day, and ruining all of it by running around and missing the main event. The game was over in our race against the clock in Hong Kong. I was happy with a Silver Medal rating on the day – some stones were left turned, but no complaints.

In a Wacky Races change of luck, Holly fell asleep and we hit the Metro again for the opening night of the Chinese New Year funfair at the Queen Victoria Park. Imagine the trail of mayhem caused by a thousand over-excited Orientals in a huge grown-up playground. It was mental.

Stalls selling every kind of rabbit-related trimmings and toxic-coloured confectionary,  funfair competitions where you poke things and throw things. I even bought a plastic orange tree with smiley white rabbit beaming out from underneath it. My pet rabbit will take pride of place on my mantelpiece, when of course we do get a house.

We people-watched the old and the young  as they mooched around the market stalls, arm linking arm, beaming their child-like smiles, enjoying the magic of a party season just beginning.

Our last stop was McDonalds, our promise and our bribe to the kids if they could just keep their eyes open and feet marching for a little while longer.

Holly  was asleep in the pushchair and as it was about 2am Sydney-time, Danny was also a little bit frazzled. We offered Joe a cheeseburger, not a Happy Meal, no toy, no gimmick, just a burger. He was so excited about his pending midnight feast, until Tony came out with two cheeseburgers. He burst into tears with a  “That’s not what I wanted. I wanted chips”.

Stuffed with two burgers, we waived “goodbye” to the final entry on our To Do list – a genuine Hong Kong food stall feast. Farewell Mr Deep Fried Grasshopper, you had a lucky escape.

We took our last underground trip with the quiet reserve usually suffered by excessively drunk souls on the Last Train Home on a Friday night. Bursting with experience and grub, we longed for the cool, crisp sheets of our 4 star hotel suite.

The day was over after what I can only describe as an Ironman show of fortitude. We ticked pretty much all the boxes and knew we couldn’t have packed more into the day.

I am not a city girl by choice. A skyscraper is a skyscraper to me – not an artistic display of wealth and global dominance. I am not desperate to have Sex in the City, I prefer a camp site and a local pub for my pleasure. But I was satisfied that I had visited the place.

Hong Kong gave me a small invite into her personality – colourful, hectic, not particularly warm, but a with hint of childish spirit.

Our final day of travelling was done, and we packed our obese bags one last time. Like many occasions on our trip, I didn’t have time to sit down and contemplate the day there and then. What did I like? What excited me? What were the disappointments? That would be a treat for the 12 hour plane journey home tomorrow.

 Our heads hit the sheets at 2am, faintly aware of the wake up call booked for two hours time.